


broken like me

by Everydaynerd



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOTAR - Freeform, Angst, F/M, Misunderstandings, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, feyre and lucien are bffs fight me, feysand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-02-07 04:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everydaynerd/pseuds/Everydaynerd
Summary: Rhys struggles to balance his company, having to serve as Amarantha's toy, worrying about the soulmate whose bruises cover his skin, and worries for Mor's best friend Feyre; Feyre is trapped in a shiny relationship that turned into a horror show. they both assume their soulmate is better off never knowing them. soulmate au in which you can see everything in your soulmate's skin





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me putting off the end of my main fic to write angsty soulmate aus again wooooo

Rhys is twenty-two the first time it happens.

 

By this point, he’d almost given up on the idea of his having a soulmate—assumed the universe had decided no poor soul deserved to be locked with him for life, and rightly so.

 

He hisses when he looks up from the mountain of paperwork before him, seeing swaths of red down his arms.

 

He’s been sitting at his desk for hours—there’s no way he’s managed to spill something.

 

The stains down his arms would say otherwise.

 

( _Soulmate_ , his brain whispers.)

But the vast quantities of red—is it _blood?_ Is something wrong with his soulmate?

 

(What if something happens to them before he ever gets to meet them? _He can’t do anything to save them_.)

 

(Of course, he would fail his soulmate. Just as he has everyone else he’s ever loved.)

His rational brain kicks in, mutters that _there’s no sign of a wound, and besides that,_ _the color is too light_ —paint, then?

 

Whatever the case, _he has a soulmate_. He fumbles for a pen, gasping for air when he realizes he’s been holding his breath and staring at the color.

 

(Afraid to do anything to disturb it would make it all nothing more than a dream.)

 

 _Hello!_ he writes on his bicep, right above the bright splotches, before he can stop himself.

 

Rhys waits anxiously, doing nothing but staring at his own handwriting for ten minutes, but no reply.

 

 _Maybe they’re busy_?

 

An hour later, the red trickles into nothingness as his soulmate washes it away—still no reply.

 

(They’re ignoring him, then.)

 

It’s probably for the best—it was cruel of the universe anyway, to tie an innocent soul to his. No one deserves that.

 

His soulmate will be better off never knowing him.

 

(This is all he can find peace in later on, when Amarantha comes by and reminds him exactly what he owes her—exactly what he must continue doing if he doesn’t want everyone that works with him to be out of a job and blacklisted to every other law firm in the country.)

 

/

/

 

She’s sixteen the first time it happens—Mr. Cabrera had let her stay after school and have the art room to herself, to finish up a piece for his class.

 

(The only one she’s passing—but that’s not surprising, as being illiterate in makes pretty much everything academic impossible.)

 

It’s his way of telling her happy birthday, she knows; he’s the only one to remember the day, and it warms her heart even as she’s reminded of how lonely she is in the world.

 

She doesn’t notice when the word appears on her arm, completely lost in her art.

 

(It’s the last time she’ll be able to paint for a while; now she’s old enough to drop out officially to work full time—as though she hasn’t been skipping class four out of five days a week to do so under the table already.)

 

It’s not till she’s hastily scrubbing her arms before changing into her work uniform that she sees it—she knows enough to know that it’s English, but the only letters she knows are a capital F and A, enough to squiggle out a feigned signature.

 

More than ever, she wishes she’d learned how to read when she was younger; that when she’d been pulled out of school for “homeschooling” at six it had actually been that, rather than doing everything under the sun for money.

 

(Her education had fallen by the wayside until truancy officers had stepped in a year prior, but attending ninth grade is fairly useless when symbols you don’t even understand float off the page.)

 

She rushes to ask Elain to read it for her as soon as she gets home, but she’s asleep, and Nesta rages when she catches her trying to wake their middle sister up because, _“she’s had a long day, you piece of shit, why would you disturb her? Could you be any less considerate?”_

(Personally, Feyre doesn't understand how a day could be so long when all Elain does is spend money they _don’t_ have, money that _Feyre_ earns to put food on the table, going out to lunch with society girls she went to high school with—before everything went to shit—)

 

Whatever the case, she holds out her upper arm to Nesta with pleading eyes, but the older woman’s lip curls in disgust.

 

“What bastard is unlucky enough to be stuck with you?”

 

When Feyre’s brow puckers in confusion, Nesta rolls her eyes. “Soulmates can see things on each other’s skin—ink, bruises, the works.”

 

“Can you—what does it say? Will you write a reply?”

 

“And be the one to tell him his soul mate’s too stupid to read first grade words herself? He’s better off without you, don’t you think?”

 

 _She’s right_ , Feyre thinks, heart sinking. Her inadequacies—she would be more of a burden than anything.

 

She looks down at her hands—callused and rough from years of dish washing and mopping and even a very-illegal construction gig she’s called for once in a while.

 

Her soulmate will be better off not knowing her.

 

(This is all she can find peace in later on, kneeling as she scrubs the grease from the restaurant floor.)

 

/

/

 

He tries, despite himself.

 

Every day for a year—writes a _hi_ or _what’s your favorite color?_ or a _you doing okay?_ Updates about his life, everything under the sun, really. For three hundred and sixty-five days.

 

After a year, though, he resigns himself to it—whoever his soulmate is, they don’t want him. Don’t want _this_.

 

So he stops.

 

They draw on themselves once in a while, though, whoever they are—his soulmate.

 

Small sketches—the night sky, roses and vines, a silhouette. They’re _so_ talented, it baffles him. The little drawings, sometimes penned with fading ink, they get him through rough days and worse nights.

 

The nights stars decorate his forearms—he can almost forget that they’re not for him.

 

/

/

 

She’s eighteen when she trips at work and spills hot coffee all over a patron—she’s horrified, just having started the job.

 

(She spent hours the first few days memorizing where on the screen the button for each item was, managing to feign literacy after years of not being able to pick up any kind of job working a register.)

 

“It’s fine,” the man assures her as she apologizes profusely, laying an easygoing smile over the grimace he’d made while being burned.

 

“The fuck it’s not, Andre,” the man next to him growls, and she comes face to face with an intimidating blond man, his suit perfectly towered, chest broad—expression angry.

 

“Sir, I’m so sorry—I, I probably can’t afford to have it dry cleaned,” she admits, reminding herself not to look down because _he is not better than her and she is not shameful_ , but something in the aristocratic air of the man’s face makes her shoulders turn in anyway.

 

“We’ll need your information in case Andre decides he’d like to press charges for battery and destruction of property.”

 

“Tam, calm down, she didn’t mean it, and you know I have plenty of other Armani. Let it go,” his friend calms him, but the blond nonetheless takes her name, and she’s left half pissed and half terrified of what havoc someone so used to getting his way will wreak on her life.

  
(He calls a week later—his corporation is opening a café, and either she comes to work there instead or the “crime” is reported; it’s not much of a choice.)

 

/

 

He’s twenty-five when he gets his first tattoo; he’d debated it for a long time—whether he should, knowing it would show up on another. Whether it would just make his soulmate hate him more.

 

He’s losing his mind, though, with the way Amarantha takes over his life.

 

(Even in sleep, nightmares of her plague him.)

 

He—for his own _sanity_ , he needs this, and it’s probably unfair to the other person whose skin it will grace, but everything he’s done for the last five years has been for other people, and _just this once_ he needs something for himself.

 

The needle hurts as it traces across his knee, but it’s a good pain—one _he_ got to choose, which is different, somehow.

 

(A few months later, his soulmate starts using paint the way she hasn’t since the day it leeched onto his skin—he wonders at the change, but he gave up on their relationship a long time ago.)

 

He merely enjoys the art she decorates her skin with—by this point, he’s fairly sure it’s a she—and doesn’t dwell on what might have been.

 

She seems happy, anyway, and that’s as much as he can hope for.

 

/

 

Tamlin shows up at her place one day, to hassle her about something or other she’d done poorly that day.

 

(He stops short, though, when she opens the door to her family’s dilapidated trailer with tired eyes—eyes her threadbare clothes, listens to the way Nesta berates her and takes money from her wallet without question.)

 

He starts being nice to her—slowly, at first. Gets to know her, a bit, trying to reconcile what he saw with the self-assured bitch he’d thus far perceived her to be. Finds out about her art, and begins gifting her with paint sets, and her world once again begins to fill with color.

 

They start dating, and their relationship is like fire, all consuming and exciting and like nothing else she’s ever experienced.

 

He brings her roses, one day, and it’s soon, but he asks her to move in with him—and just like that, he becomes her world.

 

(Roses are lovely, of course, but their vines slowly tighten and choke until there’s no life left inside them.)

 

/

/

 

Her eyes look hollow in the mirror, and somewhere deep inside her, a snort arises at the sight of the frilly dress she wears.

 

There’s nothing _wrong_ with it, per say—it’s the kind of thing Elain would adore.

 

(But she _hates_ it. Wants to set it, and every other article of clothing she owns at this point, on fire.)

 

She knows it’s an ungrateful thought to have—Tamlin has done so _much_ for her. He’s her whole world. How could she begrudge him an outfit he likes when he pulled her out of the gutter and gave her a home?

 

“You almost ready, babe?” Tamlin calls, and she sighs as she walks out to meet him, ready to play the picture of happiness for whatever benefit they’re going to.

 

It’s the kind of ridiculous affair she would’ve rolled her eyes at in her old life; rich, powerful people sitting around, getting drunk on their companies’ money, patting themselves on the back for “donating” a weekend at their private villa for a charity auction.

 

(it’s basically a paid night out where a bunch of rich white men can leer at each other’s companions and boast about how benevolent they are.)

 

The bodice of her dress is tighter than is comfortable, so she doesn’t partake much in the way of hors d’oeuvre; just holds onto his arm, puts on a smile as wide as she can muster as she greets about a million and five of Tamiln’s colleagues.

 

The heels hurt her feet, the social interaction is draining, and at some point Tamlin slips away and she’s left alone in the middle of the room. She’s never felt more like a fish out of water.

 

She tries to make her way to the edge of the crowd, but then a few of the higher ups in Autumn LLC approach her, getting a little too close for comfort. Her steps become more brisk, but they’re only getting closer, and one of them slides an arm around her waist.

 

“You shouldn’t—I’d really rather—"

 

Her prospects of getting away from them are rather dim when a deep voice calls, “There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

 

Her spine tingles, and before she can turn, the voice whispers in her ear, “just go with it”.

 

The hand is plucked from her side, and replaced by a warm one—lightly around her.

 

“Thank you for keeping her company for me, gentlemen. Now run along before I decide to let your employers know exactly what you’ve been up to.”

 

“Y-yes, Mr. Night, of course.” The men, now sweating, scramble away.

 

Feyre turns to thank her savior, but stops short at the sight of him—he’s the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.

 

(She’s glad Tamlin isn’t around to witness how speechless she is at the sight of him.)

 

/

 

He’s not sure who she is, exactly, the woman he spirits away from Beron’s idiotic offspring. She levels him with a look of distrust—good.

 

(She’s smart enough to know people don’t always do things out of the goodness of their heart—and she’s safer that way.)

 

“Thanks for that,” she says stiffly.

 

He hesitates, but—something makes him want to trust her.

 

(He should be more rational than that, he knows, but her eyes are the only ones in the building with any speck of humanity.)

 

“My younger sister used to have to come to these things. There wasn’t always someone willing to intercede for her.” He swallows heavily, fists clenching despite himself. “There should have been. We should always do what we can to help each other, you know?”

 

“I’m sorry. She deserved more. We all deserve more,” she trails off mumbling, and he meets her gaze with a look that screams _yes, yes, I understand_.

 

“Yeah, well. Being the only black family in the building doesn’t help. I’m sure they would’ve tried to keep us out long before any of it could’ve happened if they didn’t want to boast about our presence.”

 

(After all, you can only say you have the seven richest men in the world in attendance if number one shows up.)

 

The woman raises an eyebrow at his bluntness, but looks pleased at the honesty—at someone in the godforsaken building being _real_.

 

“I’m Rhysand, by the way. Rhysand Night. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

Something flickers in her gaze when she extends her hand, and he recognizes it as self-consciousness as soon as he feels the callouses adorning her palms.

 

(She’s one of them—the ones who’ve had to drag themselves up from the ground, crawling through nails and fire all the while.)

 

(The ones whose eyes flash with rage to stand around here and discuss the horror of a poorly made golf course when people are _starving_ and dying every day.)

 

“I’m—have to go,” she winces, and rushes away from him to find someone in the crowd.

 

He doesn’t know why the thought of her sticks with him—they’d barely spoken.

 

Still, something resonates.

 

(Maybe one day.)

 

/

/

 

It takes months of begging to convince Tamlin the art class is a good idea, but all of it is worth it the first day she sits in front of a canvas.

 

A weekly night course at the community center, about a semester long; it’s no Yale fine arts program, but she doesn’t know the last time she was this excited.

 

She takes her seat quietly, avoids eye contact with the people around her, but in the chatter before class begins the blonde two chairs over turns with a dazzling smile.

 

“Hi! I’m so excited for this class, are you? I’m not very artistic, per say—that is, my cousin says my art could make babies cry, and apparently they’re color blind for a bit so it would be quite the accomplishment—but then hopefully this class will help with that! I’m Mor by the way.”

 

Feyre’s eyes widen, overwhelmed at the other woman’s enthusiasm, but she gives a tentative smile in return. “Feyre,” she responds quietly.

 

(An hour later, they’re giggling at the atrocity Mor has produced when she notices that Feyre’s piece is kind of amazing—“ _oh my god, our own Michaelangelo! Please teach me your ways_.”)

 

/

 

She doesn’t know how it happens, her friendship with Mor. The other girl seems so much— _more_ —than her, in every way, but somehow she wants her in her life, and before she can blink they’re best friends.

 

She opens up to Mor about things she’s never even told Tamlin—her relationship with her sisters and father, her feelings of inferiority.

 

Mor confesses the real reason she signed up for their class was after hearing the story of Artemesia Gentileschi.

 

(An artist who channeled her rage and violation after assault into her art—Mor had hoped she might be able to do the same.)

 

Tamlin doesn’t love it, of course—thinks Mor’s a bad influence, that her cousin is a public menace, that she’ll steer Feyre away from what’s right.

 

(Because his bff Ianthe is _such_ a great human, but whatever)

 

It’s a month and a half into their friendship, and pretty much any waking hour Feyre isn’t with Tam, she’s with Mor. She spends ages sprawled on Mor’s couch—the blonde works from home most of the time, and decides her own hours, and anyway Feyre is happy to doodle absentmindedly while her friend does actual work.

 

She tries not to resent the fact that she would give anything to work; she couldn’t get any non-menial job, not having an education, and Tamlin is insistent that she let him take care of her, and he means well, but…

 

( _but._ )

 

“Morrigan, please tell Cassian dearest I’m your favorite in the family,” a voice drawls from downstairs, and Feyre’s spine straightens without her meaning to.

 

Three broad shouldered men stroll into the room; all are ridiculously gorgeous (like, did she fall into an episode of _Teen Wolf_?), and it takes her a minute to realize the one smirking at the front is her savior from the most recent disaster of a charity ball. The one who pops up in her mind, in her dreams, much more than he should.

 

“Rhys, you both know Az is my favorite,” Mor tsks teasingly.

 

Rhysand and whoever Feyre is assuming is Cassian both groan, but the slightly leaner man at the back merely quirks an eyebrow and holds out a palm.

 

(She can’t contain her laughter when both pouting men hand over twenties.)

 

Rhys turns when the sound escapes her, and his face lights up. “Ah! Cinderella, so nice to see you again.”

 

“You know Feyre?” Mor asks.

 

“We met at the shitshow Helion put on last month,” Feyre explains, rolling her eyes with disdain.

 

“Feyre darling ran off before I could catch her name—how lovely to see you again,” Rhys practically purrs.

 

“Let me guess, you had to get back to his prickishness,” Mor mutters.

 

Feyre scowls in return. “Mor! You know I really wish you two would try to get along.”

 

“Don’t break my heart and tell me you love another, Feyre darling!” Rhys pleads dramatically.

 

“I’m afraid so—but if things don’t work out I’m glad I’ll have a back-up option.”

 

“And don’t you forget it,” he winks, the motion stuck in her memory for weeks.

 

/

 

He knows he shouldn’t have feelings for her—she’s with someone else, and besides that, she’s _not his soulmate_ , and even if his own wants nothing to do with him, Feyre of all people deserves to be with her perfect match.

 

But Feyre—Feyre is everything good in this _world_. He can’t help but fall for her more and more each time they meet. She’s so full of personality, of honesty, unflinching genuineness when she talks about the world and her own experiences, bravery and lack of sorrow over her own shitty circumstances…he’s never seen anything like it

 

Even if they didn’t get along, he would love her, because she’s brought out a light in Mor he hadn’t seen since…before. His cousin always liked to play the happy character, but her mask had been thin since Eris.

 

Feyre made her smile real—and he would do anything to keep it so.

 

/

 

She knows she shouldn’t have feelings for him.

 

She’s with Tamlin—and Tam is so, _so_ good to her. He took her in when she had no one, became the family she’d never had, put the very clothes on her back; she would have nothing without him.

 

He’s the reason she met Lucien, who she bonded with in ways she never would’ve expected, who’s become so close to her heart she can’t put it into words.

 

(Tamiln has always been a little uncomfortable with how close they are, but it’s clear to anyone they have no romantic feelings for each other, so he doesn’t vocalize the disquiet in his eyes.)

 

But Rhys…he makes her feel _capable_. Asks her thoughts before voicing his own, cares so deeply about everyone and everything around him, gives everything he has to others and yet tries to make sure they never know how much of himself has been spent for them.

 

She can’t help but be in awe of it.

 

(She didn’t think people like him were real.)

 

Eventually, Tamlin finds out, of course—he always finds out what’s going on in her life. Unbeknowest to Feyre, he’s not the biggest fan of Rhys for reasons unconnected to her.

 

(Spoiler: his reasons may not pertain to her, but that doesn’t mean she won’t take on the blame.)

 

/

 

The first bruise, Rhys assumes to be his own; he must’ve bumped into his desk harder than he’d thought.

 

(By the next month, however, he knows they’re not his—and their frequency is too great to be ignored.)

 

They show up in different places, and she sometimes paints over them; his wrists are probably most commonly adorned.

 

He’s not sure how to approach it; his soulmate has made it clear she doesn’t want him in her life, but—but someone is _hurting_ her. He can’t just sit by and watch her skin become someone else’s way of venting frustration.

 

(As though his own isn’t precisely that for another.)

 

 _I know it isn’t really my place_ , he writes. _But you deserve so much more than this—than someone who_ hurts _you. Whatever they’re saying to justify it…you are so much more. There is nothing that could make this okay. I can help you if you need—anything you need._

When he wakes up the next morning, scribbles cover his entire message.

 

(Below it, spiky handwriting says _my life is none of your fucking business—don’t comment on things you know nothing about. Stay out of my life._ )

 

Somehow, the handwriting seems almost familiar, and he knows something about it is off—knows that she needs _help_. Would give anything to help her.

 

(But there’s only so much he can do, and it’s not the first time she’s made it clear she wants nothing to do with him.)

 

For all he knows, her predicament is similar to his own—and it kills him.

 

He tugs his long sleeves back down. Hopes for her sake she gets out.

 

(Keeps watching her steady hand turn her pain into masterpieces on both of their skin.)

 

/

/

 

As if his worries about his soulmate aren’t enough, something is off with Feyre.

 

She’s been around much less—at this point, the only one of them she’s really hanging out with is Mor, and only for brief spurts of time.

 

And sure, part of it is his upset at being ghosted—he’d thought he and Feyre were close, so the sudden ousting from her life hurts.

 

But more than that, something is really wrong on her end. She’s eating less—not in the way of someone afraid of food (the way he’d seen his sister in her darkest moments, counting calories and equating eating with sin), but as if eating just doesn’t appeal to her.

 

(Really, it seems as if life itself doesn’t appeal to her, most days he catches a glimpse.)

 

The bags under her eyes darken, and she adopts the mask Mor used to wear—Feyre is _not okay_.

 

Why doesn’t anyone else see it?

 

He tries to approach her about it once, but she mumbles an excuse and skitters away and out to the hired car that brings her to and from everywhere she goes these days.

 

/

 

She doesn’t know how she got here.

 

It was so, so gradual, the way Tamlin became a monster. She finally understands the frog in the pot analogy; he never raised the temperature of the water quickly enough for her to notice, made every step along the way seem rational and now she’s boiling and it’s too late.

 

She’s trapped.

 

(God, why is she always so fucking _trapped._ )

 

It took her so long to notice how not okay things were, that no amount of saving her or financial support or becoming her family makes this acceptable.

 

(Makes it fair for him to put his hands on her, to control her like she’s a fucking child.)

 

He’d become her world, and it seemed so romantic at the time, but now it’s sickening—he’s her world, and she has no way out. Nowhere to turn, no place to live or clothes to wear or food to eat outside of him, and her friends are so far beyond pushed away she can’t imagine getting them to speak to her, let alone take her in.

 

The part that kills her the most, she thinks, is that he didn’t even have to convince her to push her family away to begin with—what should’ve been a warning sign. They were already so far gone, and she knew him before any of the friends she’d made…she was the _perfect_ target. Couldn’t even read or write to find an anonymous tip line, even if she _tried_ to get out of the hell that had fallen into place around her.

 

She bumps into Rhys one day, and it takes everything in her not to burst into tears at the sight of him—the concern and care in his eyes, even still, after months of her “refusing” to speak to any of them.

 

“Feyre, please—”

 

It’s the first time he hasn’t called her Feyre darling, and it kills something inside her.

 

But she can’t. Tamlin will be here soon, and if he catches them—

( _she’ll pay for it later_ , her still healing fractured wrist and concussion remind her.)

 

“Leave me alone, Rhysand. In case it hasn’t been clear enough, I don’t _want_ to see you.”

 

He flinches at her words, but steels himself, throwing up his cocky grin. “Now we both know that’s not true—and even then, I know you must miss my better half dearly. We’re all left to her pitiful attempts at art in your absence.”

 

 _Mor_. God, she would give _anything_ to see her.

 

Before she can really process the thought, the light catches on blond hair powerwalking their way, and her stomach falls.

 

Tamlin—he’s seen them. She’s screwed.

 

He’s beside her in record time, a hand proprietarily around her waist and coming to rest on her ass, and the possessive display makes her nauseous.

 

“Night,” he bites out.

 

Rhysand raises a cool eyebrow. “Tamlin—I didn’t realize you were Feyre darling’s beau. How very lucky for you.”

 

And her eyes shutter closed in defeat. Rhys means well, she knows he does, but she already knows Tamiln will interpret that as her not telling other men about him.

 

(her skin will pay for that.)

 

/

 

She’d thought the night couldn’t get any worse by the time they’d gotten home, car door handle broken, glass of the front door shattered.

 

(she was wrong.)

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see ink creeping along her forearm, and all the blood drains from her face.

 

Thus far, she’d kept Tamlin from finding out about him—her soulmate, whoever he was. She knew he wouldn’t like it, knew it would threaten him, so she’s always covered any of his markings with her artwork.

 

But a night like tonight, there wouldn’t be time.

 

She can tell the exact moment he sees it—the moment it strikes him that there are words on her skin that weren’t there before, that he realizes that _Feyre can’t write—that’s not her handwriting._

 

(soulmate.)

 

She has no idea what’s written there, of course, but whatever it is, it enrages Tamlin beyond as livid as he already is at realizing she’s hidden her soulmate from him the entirety of their relationship—on top of everything else.

 

He snatches up her arm, holding it in a vice-like grip as he practically carves a response onto her flesh with a pen, with enough pressure that she’s holding back a whimper.

 

(her own boyfriend—her savior and her monster all rolled into one.)

 

The rest blurs together, as she fades in and out of consciousness—hits to her abdomen, palms to her face, what Tam would probably call sex but the thought of makes her flinch.

 

She doesn’t know how she got here—she was a _survivor_. A fighter. How can a fighter find themselves another person’s chew toy?

 

(there’s a vivid memory of a glass table being flipped, of shards slicing into her, a frantic Lucien removing the pieces and stitching her up at home.)

 

( _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I wish I could get us both out,_ he whispers all the while, and it becomes clear to Feyre that he’s just as trapped as she is by the man who claims to love them both.)

 

She’s so sorry they’re in this predicament—and she begins to hate that word. she’s _sorry_ , he’s _sorry_ , Tamiln is _sorry, it’ll never happen again—_ the word sorry is a fucking joke.

 

(it’s her last coherent thought before she slips into true unconsciousness for the night.)

 

/

 

He loses it after seeing them together.

 

He knew something was off—knew it was odd that her boyfriend had never been around, that she never mentioned him despite being serious enough to be living together, that even Mor didn’t know him.

 

Of fucking _course_ — while he was being Amarantha’s plaything, Tamlin was the one draining the life from the woman he loves without a second thought.

 

(It’s not even a surprise when he realizes he loves her, merely a sigh of acknowledging what had been there for so long.)

 

He gets home, and immediately begins downing tequila while rock music blares—not even shots, taking pulls straight from the handle, and he has no idea how much he’s had to drink but everything hurts just a little bit less, just muffled enough to be bearable.

 

Naturally, as if the night can’t get any worse, bruises begin to bloom across his skin, one after the other, more than ever before, blood adorning one shoulder.

 

It’s _killing_ him, knowing what his soulmate is going through. Knowing that someone is clearly doing this to her.

 

He’s drunk enough that he doesn’t let himself think about the years of rejection—countless times of him reaching out only to be ignored, of the previous message to butt out. She’s _hurting_ , and regardless of how much she clearly hates him, no one deserves to be treated like this. He’ll do _anything_.

 

 _Whatever you feel about me doesn’t matter_ , he scribbles hastily, the loos of his handwriting sloppier than normal in his haste. _You deserve more—you are worth everything in this world, and whoever is doing this to you is in the wrong. If it’s something you can’t get out of, if you need help getting out, or back on your feet, I…I get that you might not want to come to me. But I really wish you would. Please._

_735-910-2298. Anytime, anyplace. For the rest of our lives. I promise, if you need me, I’ll be there._

Moments later, the same angry scrawl crawls across his skin as it did months ago: _stay the fuck out of things that aren’t your business. Keep your filthy words to yourself._

He sees red—grabs the first thing he can get his hands on (some ridiculous vase) and hurtles it across the room, thankful there’s no one else here to witness his breakdown.

 

He’s tossing books off the coffee table, pillows from the couch, completely upturns his desk, papers and knick knacks scattering across the floor, because he just—doesn’t know what to _do_. Doesn’t know how to help his soulmate when she’s so resistant to getting help, doesn’t know how to help Feyre come back to them, doesn’t know how to help Mor get over losing the friend who’d reminded her of who she was…doesn’t _know_.

 

Everything in his life is drowning him and he can’t make it stop and he’s curled up on the floor, shaking with frustration and anger and pain and sorrow and wondering how any of it will ever get better.

 

(If he’ll ever be enough to help the people he loves.)

 

/

/

 

The details of it are hazy.

 

Cassian runs in to tell them, seated around the board room table of Night’s pseudonymed better half, Velaris Inc. It’s a miracle no one outside the company has figured out the Night association—but then, Rhys is borderline obsessed with protecting the secret, with making sure his family’s history and Amarantha’s present work over the Night name do nothing to taint an organization capable of doing so much _good_.

 

Cassian’s eyes are bright and wide, and the grin on his face exudes disbelief. “Ding dong,” he says breathlessly, humor and excitement in his voice.

 

“Come again?” Amren asks, unamused, a perfect eyebrow raised.

 

“Ding dong,” he repeats. “As in, the motherfucking witch is dead.”

 

He might be misunderstanding Cass, tries to tamper down the hope bubbling uncontrollably in his chest. “Cassian, I swear to god, if this is a joke—”

 

The door slides open almost silently, Azriel stepping up beside his counterpart without a sound. “I was corroborating the news while Cass came ahead to tell you—it’s true. Three reliable sources just confirmed.” He meets Rhys’s eye, and something in his gaze makes him think his best friend _knows_ —knows what he’s done, what he’s sacrificed for so long. (Knows that his relief at her being out of the picture goes beyond being vindictive towards an evil company overlord hurting everyone around her.) “Amarantha is dead.”

 

“Oh, thank god,” Rhys whispers numbly, putting his head in his hands. _She’s gone._

 

And he feels so guilty, for being so glad at someone’s death, but—she’s taken _everything_ from him, has made him a shadow of himself. And now he’s _free_.

 

Everything has been such shit lately, but this…god, maybe things will turn out. Somehow.

 

/

 

It’s a week later, at an A-list only auction of all of Amarantha’s things—no part of him wants to be here, and there’s no way anything of hers will ever come into his home, but the press have been circling in the wake of her death, and he doesn’t need the gossip that would be generated if he didn’t attend.

 

They’re just ahead of him in the entryway, Feyre looking as beautiful as ever, but…hollow. She turns as Tamlin leans down to sign in, and there’s no sign of light in her eyes—she’s not even _pretending_ to be happy at this point.

 

She’s even more thin than the last time he saw her, and they lock eyes for just a moment—the briefest of moments—and she shakes her head subtlety, just as Tamlin stands back up, reaching for her hand.

 

Her left hand—where a rock the size of an olive sits. She’s _marrying_ him. She’s going to be with him forever—not that Rhys had ever stood a chance, but he could’ve handles that if she were happy; but she’s _not_ , she’s so aggressively _not happy_ , and she’s going to be with Tamlin till she dies.

 

(As if the day couldn’t get any worse.)

 

He steps forward to sign in as they leave, absentmindedly and picking up a bidding paddle and penning his name. Setting down a pen, he glances across the list to see who else is here: Varian, Beron, Kallias, Helion—the usual suspects.

 

When he gets to Tamlin’s name, though, something twinges inside him—the handwriting is familiar. He can’t figure out why, but he _knows_ this handwriting—knows it so well his mind is screaming at him to remember what he knows it from, how he could possibly have seen anything Tamlin Primavera had ever written.

 

 _It’s irrelevant_ , he tells himself, stepping into the main event.

 

/

 

He can’t get it out of his mind—can’t get Feyre out of his mind, either, so he finds himself staring at the two of them for most of the auction.

 

He’s incessantly pissed off by the way Tamiln treats her more like arm décor than the love of his life, ignoring her to regale the men around him with tales of his most recent fiscal opportunities, not noticing the way she stares off into the distance.

 

It finally ends, and he’s ready to leave, to get away from all of the pain Feyre, and Tamiln, and Amarantha’s memory are working together to bring him—his mind feels pulverized.

 

He allows himself one more glance at her— _the last time_ , he tells himself, and he looks over just in time to see Tamiln’s hand reach for the small of her back—and she flinches.

 

She fucking _flinches_.

 

(He’s hurting her.)

 

The bastard is putting his hands on her, enough that she instinctively flinches at his touch.

 

She’s being hurt and she doesn’t deserve it, god, Feyre deserves so much more and she’s only gotten so much bad in this life, and why does everyone good in this world get so _wronged_? Feyre, Mor, his soulmate, however much she wants him to stay out of her—

 

It hits him, then, like a ton of bricks.

 

For a moment he thinks he might pass out in shock, but his lungs start working again and then his legs are taking him back to the entryway.

 

It’s still there, the sign in book, with no attendant to stop him from snatching it up, frantically flipping back to the page his name is on.

 

 _There it is_. It’s no wonder he didn’t recognize the writing—the first two times, it had been hurried, messy, and the bastard had never written his name in the sentences that had appeared on Rhys’s skin.

 

Sentences he had written after the bruises and blood—bruises and blood he had also put there.

 

He sprints out the door, ignoring his car and making himself physically start going home before he can do something he shouldn’t.

 

(Like beat the shit out of Tamlin until every bone in his body is fucking snapped. Gouge out his eyes. Break every single finger that has been used to hurt Feyre—his _soulmate_.)

 

By the time he gets home hours later, he’s soaked in sweat, definitely dehydrated, and his mind is still whirring at a hundred miles an hour as he fits it all together.

 

(The flowers his soul mate had always drawn. How withdrawn Feyre had been as of late. Not seeing Feyre for weeks after each time his own skin had grown black and blue.)

 

Mor is sprawled on the couch when he throws the door open, paperwork propped up on her lap and a coffee cup beside her. Her eyes widen at the sight of him, and she drops the phone from her ear, hanging up without bothering to say goodbye to the person on the other end. “Rhys? Where the hell have you been? Everyone called when you went AWOL—are you okay?”

 

He gapes for a moment, unable to form words. Tries to thing of the way to explain it, to tell her everything that had happened today, but it just—

 

“She’s my soulmate,” he rasps, dropping to his knees on the hardwood floor.

 

Before she can respond, the dehydration gets the better of him, and he slides into unconsciousness.

 

/

/

 

 _She can’t do this anymore_. She doesn’t have any other choice, but—today was a wake-up call. She needs to figure out something, _anything_ , to get out of this before it starts hurting someone other than herself, because of her—she won’t let that happen.

 

(It had been negative—thank god, it had been negative.)

 

(But one day it might not be.)

 

She’d gone to such lengths to get the test, had to figure out a way to take it here rather than at home—if he or the maids had seen it in the trash, there would’ve been hell to pay.

 

(Or worse—it would’ve planted the idea in his head. If it’s not already there.)

 

They’re at a fancy restaurant downtown for lunch; it’s better this way, in public, where he won’t risk making a scene.

 

She doesn’t have anything with her—which is fine, she can’t very well take any of it, anyway, seeing as none of it is really hers. It all came with the cost her body paid, and she won’t let it be one more thing she owes him.

 

No—she owes him nothing. Not after what he’s done to her.

 

(She hates that she has to remind herself of that.)

 

She manages to turn her lips up in a smile when he says he’ll be right back—then jumps out of her seat the instant the bathroom door closes behind him, and rushes for the exit, heart pounding.

 

As soon as she emerges, Lucien jumps up and out of where he has the car parked, making to open the door for her; the second they lock eyes he knows—knows she’s going to run.

 

And she knows he wants her to escape more than anything, knows he’s as close to a brother as she could ever have; but she also knows he’s trapped too, and the consequences will be dire if he doesn’t stop her. “Please, please don’t help him keep me—I have to get out Lucien,” she begs. “Don’t try to stop me.”

 

He bites his lip, reaching into his pocket for his phone, and her hopes are dashed—she’s already starting to cry hopelessly when he hands it to her.

 

“W—what?”

 

“I can’t bring you anywhere, you know he would kill me. But maybe I fell asleep in the car waiting for you two—maybe you grabbed my phone out of my pocket and disappeared with it.”

 

“You know he won’t believe you—I can’t let you risk that for me, Luc.”

 

“You’re my family, Feyre. I’d rather you get out than both of us be stuck here, and I can handle whatever he does to me if I know you’re safe.”

 

She throws her arms around him—the first time she’d voluntarily reached for physical contact in so, _so_ long—but too soon, he’s pushing her away, whispering _go_ , and she’s sprinting away from him, from the restaurant, from Tamiln, from this life—from the roar she can already hear inside the restaurant, _shit_.

 

She ducks into a diner a few blocks away, the kind of place that had been special-occasions-only for her growing up but which Tamlin wouldn’t be caught dead in. Breathing heavily, she approaches a harried looking waitress, feeling guilty.

 

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but—do you happen to have a way to look up the number for Night Industries? It’s important, I swear.”

 

The older woman sighs, taking in her appearance—hair a sweaty mess, frantic and terrified expression. Feyre can see the moment she decides—the moment her eyes flick over the bruise on her wrist, sleeve pushed out of place while she ran. She tugs it down, but the woman gives her a knowing look, and immediately starts typing. “General number...437-488-0901.”

 

Feyre rushes to type the numbers, grateful for once for this, the only thing she _can_ read.

 

She waves to the waitress and makes her way into the corner of the shop. And it takes ages—convincing reception she actually knows the celebrity, that she actually needs to speak to him, and then she’s passed on to his assistant only to repeat it all.

 

The next time the phone rings, someone drawls, “ Speak,” and the voice is so cold it takes her a moment to recognize it.

 

“R—Rhys?” the word comes out as a whisper.

 

“Feyre?” he gasps, shooting up an octave. “Where are you? What’s happening? Is everything okay?”

 

“I need your help,” she admits. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but—”  
  


“Where are you, Feyre?” he demands.

 

“Penny’s on 87th.”

 

Mor shows up twenty minutes later, pulling her into her arms immediately—not asking for explanations, without reprimands. Feyre practically collapses into her.

 

(Maybe things can be okay.)


	2. Chapter 2

Feyre opens her eyes, and her first instinct is panic—she’s not at the house, which means Tamlin is probably out of his mind with “worry”, and liable to be pure rage whenever he next sees her.

 

It hits her, then— _she left him_.

 

She stumbles out of the room, trying not to dwell on the long t-shirt she’s wearing not being hers, and finds a familiar scene: Mor, sprawled across the couch, paperwork in her lap and _The Walking Dead_ playing, and Rhys, standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, trying to watch the show while whisking something.

 

“Hi.”

 

They both jump when she speaks, voice raspy.

 

“Feyre! I didn’t even hear you come in,” Mor smiles softly, but Rhys watches her carefully—as if he knows something about it is off.

 

(As if he knows that it’s no coincidence they didn’t hear her approach—she’s mastered the art of silently creeping through the house, of walking close to furniture and other weighted things where the floorboards won’t creak, staying on the balls of her feet, holding her arms out far enough for the sleeves not to swish.)

 

“I—thank you. So much. For—for coming, I mean.”

 

“Always.”

 

She jerks when the reply comes from Rhys, instead of Mor, as she’d expect—but there’s no hint of sarcasm or judgment in his eyes. Only the promise.

 

“And you don’t have to talk about it—now or ever,” Mor tells her soothingly. “But we do need to know—do we need to go pick up the rest of your things? We can call Amren, Cass, and Azriel to come back us up.” She says it casually, but it’s clear she means for protection— _she knows_. Knows the threat of violence from Tamiln is a very real possibility.

 

“I—” Feyre swallows, unsure how to explain that she owns nothing in this world but the painting she’d folded and stuffed into her purse. “No. There’s nothing of mine at Tamlin’s house.”

 

“Okay! Even better—that means a shopping trip is in our future. Now sit down, today is strictly dedicated to watching Disney movies.”

 

And they do—everything from _Lilo and Stitch_ to _Tangled_ to _Meet the Robinsons_ , without delving into the hard things or leaving the couch except to go to the bathroom.

 

/

A few days later they’re halfway through _Beauty and the Beast_ after Mor finishes her work, when Mor passes out, head on her shoulder.

 

She’d expected the movie to be difficult to watch—she and Tamlin had always joked it was the story of their relationship, had dressed up as Belle and Beast the first Halloween they were together. (Back when things were…good.)

 

The thing is…watching it now? She doesn't see him in the Beast. The way he’d treated Lucien wasn’t like Lumiere, he’d never tried to learn about her interests, never offered her her freedom—that was never him.

 

(He’s been Gaston all along.)

 

What she’d wanted had never mattered—she’d been intended to mold herself to fit his plans, the life he decided they would have. She was supposed to be grateful that he’d made her life “better”.

 

He’d never intended to rescue her from her old life; he just knew she had no other options.

 

The realization crashes through her, and the more she thinks about it—the more she looks at their relationship without the hero lens—the more it makes sense, the more she wishes she could go back in time and beg herself to see the cage forming around her that no one saw.

 

And it makes her worry—because she’d only been in his life a year, and he had this much on her, and what must he have over Lucien to keep him on such a short leash for so many years?

 

/

 

It seems like Rhys is always watching her.

 

She’s not naïve enough to believe it’s out of attraction, him being so far beyond out of her league, and most of the time she chalks it up to an overactive imagination on her part, but…whenever he’s in the room, she feels his eyes on her.

 

And he must be watching her, because he notices things she’s never told him, or Mor for that matter. She’s only been staying at the Nights’ three days when he starts bringing her coffee exactly how she drinks it, their dinners all happen to be some of her favorite meals.

 

She noticed it after Cassian walked in with a rose on his lapel her second week there; her gaze zeroed in on the flower, until it was obscuring her vision and all she could think and all she could feel was the sight of the roses she reached to accept with bruised arms, with a broken wrist—the roses Tam brought her every time he hurt her. A million apologies for a million wounds, all at the forefront of her mind.

 

She hadn’t noticed herself sliding into the panic attack; hadn’t noticed her chest tighten, her breathing become shallow, her heart rate skyrocketing.

 

It was  only once she’s in the midst of it, and Rhys is next to her speaking soothing words, voice soft, begging her to take deep breaths, reminding her she’s okay, that she realized what was happening. Managed to pull it together enough to drag her body to the guest bed she’d been occupying, and didn’t move from it for twelve hours.

 

(She hadn’t seen red in the house, since.)

 

Whatever Rhys has been through, whoever he is beyond the friend she’s already gotten to know…he gets it.

 

(Which both relieves her and makes her hurt for him.)

 

/

 

It’s a few weeks later, and she’s simultaneously resentful (because she hates that all of her friends have seen her at her most vulnerable, have seen how weak and dependent she truly is) and grateful—she’s living her best and worst life.

 

She cooked tonight, so it’s Rhys’s turn to do dishes, and he’s singing Carrie Underwood while elbow deep in soapy water when the familiar buzz of his text tone goes off. “Could you check who that is? It’s probably not important, but I just want to make sure.”

 

Feyre’s eyes widen from her place, legs crossed atop the counter. The phone is inches from her, and she has no good reason to refuse—it’s not like checking to see who texted him is a burden.

 

(Except for the fact that she can’t read.)

 

For a moment she panics, empty and ashamed—and then she gets _angry_ , for reasons she can’t explain, except that it sucks to feel so inferior in _every_ way, and she’s already well aware that she’s useless and incompetent and doesn’t need him to sit there so expectantly and remind her of it when he’s had everything he’s ever asked for from birth.

 

“Not my fucking problem. Check your own phone,” she snaps, blinded by rage and frustration, and storms into her room, where she immediately devolves into tears. The anger dissipates as soon as she’s alone, crumbling into sorrow and a bone-deep, aching sadness she can’t explain, and she hates that lashing out at Rhys is her M.O. when he’s been there in her worst moments, but that’s just it—he’s been there in her worst moments, and she can’t risk him knowing anything more.

 

(No one who’s ever known more has turned out well.)

 

It’s not till after her eyes have grown puffy that she realizes her clenched fists left crescent indents on both palms, breaking the skin in some places.

 

(She’s not okay—she’s not in Tamlin’s grasp, but she’s still so, very far from okay.)

 

Even as she processes the marks on her own skin, color begins to appear around them—soft yellow and dark blue, outlining the damage of her nails and then expanding into a pattern of waves and spirals across her hands. The sight of the paint, even if she can’t feel it—it calms her.

 

She doesn’t know how her soul mate could know, how badly she needs this reminder that she’s not alone, this faceless art without cause. And she can’t even begin to process that he’s done it in what happen to be the two main colors that don’t trigger her or make her think of Spring.

 

But she’s grateful—whatever else happens, she’ll always be grateful to her soulmate for this, this moment of peace and feeling just the slightest bit less alone in the world.

 

She grabs a pen, feeling herself about to doze off, and sketches a haphazard attempt at the city skyline at night; it’s as close to a thank you as she can write.

 

She falls asleep with her forearm inches from her face; for some reason, her soul mate’s art makes her feel safe.

 

 It’s a sentiment she holds onto even once the paint is washed away.

 

/

 

It’s three a.m. and she’s pacing the halls; not unusual for her, because sleep…

 

(sleep is hard. And usually accompanied by nightmares she’d rather avoid.)

 

She never liked when the house was quiet, at Tamlin’s—it felt ominous, and hollow, when it wasn’t teeming with life, despite the excessive décor.

 

Here, though, she finds she doesn’t mind so much—the house still feels like a home, even when her own footsteps are the only sound.

 

The walls are absolutely plastered with pictures; some in frames, some just slapped on with sticky tack (it feels like Cassian’s work), everything from Mor sprawled across Cassian and Rhys on the couch to Az looking terrified while skiing down a movie-quality mountain.

 

There are a few where everyone looks like teenagers, but nothing younger than that, which makes her wonder. Mor has made it clear under no uncertain circumstances that she hates her parents, that hers and Rhys’s childhoods were awful—that this is what they’d had in common with Cass and Az when they met. But to have no pictures of all those years…well, it speaks more than words ever could.

 

Feyre keeps walking, staring at the photos into glimpses of their story. She steps quietly as she passes the door to Rhys’s chambers, when a muffled whimper stops her in her tracks.

 

Before she can call out to him, he lets out a scream—the kind full of primal, unadulterated fear, and she races into his room without hesitation.

 

/

 

When he comes to, he’s drenched in sweat, and all he can see is Feyre’s face hovering inches above him, brows scrunched together with worry.

 

“Rhys—it was just a dream, you’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

 

It’s the last of these that does the most to calm him— _his soul mate is here_. She’s here, and he can feel it—the spark of her touch so much different than Amarantha’s in his nightmares, the cotton of her shirt grounding him.

 

“Feyre,” he rasps, and she looks him in the eye while she keeps stroking his hair.

 

“You’re okay. I’m here, you’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”

 

“Xanax,” he manages to get out. “In the bathroom cabinet. Can you—”

 

Feyre hurries to the cabinet, yanking open the door—then hesitates.

 

His heart still stammering, he watches her stare into the cabinet—she bites her lip, clenches her fists in frustration. He wonders what could be making her glare at the medicine; as far as he knows, there are a couple of over the counter meds and his three prescription bottles.

 

“I can’t—” she shakes her head. She winces, then scowls, like she’s scared out of her mind and pissed as hell all at once.

 

“It should be the one furthest to the left, more full than the other bottles,” he pants out between gasps, and she immediately snatches up the bottle and spirits it back to the bed.

 

Rhys dry swallows the pill with ease, the motion familiar, and as the panic attack begins to fade he starts to really process Feyre’s moment of terror and anger.

 

He runs through it mentally—the only other time he’s seen her this frustrated was when he asked her to read out his text, or the time Mor asked her to read out the next step in a flan recipe—

 

 _Read_. Both times, she’d been asked to—and he must’ve seen her read at some point?

 

Except the more he thinks about it—he doesn’t think he has. She’s good at coming up with excuses, at playing things off, but… _Feyre can’t read_.

 

All the times he scribbled across his skin and only got art in reply and assumed it was a jilt, her frustrations and inability to get a job, or out from Tamlin’s grasp…

 

The implications are insanity. The fact that she’s made it this far…

 

It’s another piece of understanding Feyre, and it—it’s a game changer.

 

 

/

 

She’s slowly eating a bowl of cereal (Mor goes to extensive lengths to keep her eating regularly), when Rhys collapses in the chair across from her, spilling a stack of workbooks onto the table before her.

 

“What—”

 

“Listen before you scream at me,” he asks, giving her the smolder that means he’s about to piss her off. “Because you’re my friend and I care about you and want the best for you.”

 

 She glares suspiciously, and he carries on. “I’m gonna teach you to read. I got different tools, so if there’s a level you already understand or if there’s a particular method that works best for you we can primarily use that. But you have to learn—it’ll give you much more agency, so if you ever want to move on or work somewhere else—”

 

Her eyes go wide, nose flaring defensively. “If you wanted me out you just had to say so.”

 

“No that’s not—” he sighs, wondering how he manages to get things with her so wrong.

 

(She’s his soulmate—shouldn’t this be as easy as breathing?)

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says more gently, making eye contact and hoping she can see the honesty, the affection and love in his eyes. “I only meant—I don’t ever want you to be here because you have no other option. I want you to be here because you choose to be, because we’re family and you _want_ to be here. And I wouldn’t ever really feel like that’s true if I knew you didn’t have a skill that’s kind of essential for you to leave. I couldn’t bear it if you ever felt as trapped here as—or well, anywhere. I don’t want you to ever feel like that again.”

 

He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt as he says this, pulling it away from his skin, and that’s what makes her believe him.

 

(He’s tugging at the collar the way she only began to once it brushed up against bruises, once it felt reminiscent of the hand squeezing her throat.)

 

(He’s not saying this offhandedly—he _knows_ the feeling of little agency.)

 

“I—we’ll have to start at the beginning.” She doesn’t meet his eyes as she says so, thumbing the edge of the table.

 

He nods, expressionless, and searches the table until he finds the workbook he’s looking for. “This one, then.”

 

He tells her the letters, and grabs snacks as she continues to practice tracing them out, her cheeks red despite the lack of condescension in his demeanor.

 

But when they finish for the day, she’s pretty confident she’ll remember most of the letters—and it’s mortifying, and frustrating, but more than she’s ever known.

 

/

/

/

 

Az is the one to find Lucien—bloodied to a pulp, almost unrecognizable, dropped in a back alley, one Az had only passed by chance while checking in on some of their seedier business partners—reminding them to follow the policies Rhys has set in place, lest they reap the repercussions he’s made them well aware of.

 

He has him stretched out in the back of his car when the redhead coughs up blood, and he’s got Rhys on speed dial seconds later, throwing the car into gear. “Rhysand, it’s Vanserra—the decent one. He’s done something to piss of Tamlin—I’m taking him to the hospital now, he’s already lost a fuckton of blood.”

 

“No hospital,” Lucien rasps faintly from the backseat, hacking up what sounds like half a lung.

 

“Not optional, Vanserra—you’re on death’s doorstep already.” Az doesn’t know how the guy is even still breathing, let alone coherent

 

“ _NO HOSPITAL_.” It’s both a command and a plea.

 

Az moves from where he’s setting Lucien’s leg to make eye contact. “I have basic first aid training but I am _not_ equipped to deal with injuries this severe; Lucien, if I don’t take you to the hospital your odds are—"

 

 “I don’t care,” he coughs out. “I can’t. My—soulmate. He has her. Will hurt her.”

 

“Fuck,” Az mutters under his breath, then brings the phone back to his mouth as he slams the car door and starts up the engine. “Okay, Rhys, change of plans; I’m bringing him to the house, get Cass to set up the field kit in one of the spares, and any emergency supplies he can have when we get there. It’s gonna be a long night.”

 

/

 

 

It’s another day before he regains consciousness, surrounded by Night Corp VIPs, Feyre asleep and clutching his hand.

“Feyre.” His voice comes out barely more than a whisper, but she jolts nonetheless, which doesn’t surprise him in the worst way—people in Tamlin’s life have never been able to be light sleepers.

 

“Luc, thank god,” she breathes, gripping his hand with both of her own. “How are you feeling? Do you need meds, or water, anything?”

 

“Help me check my skin—I need to know she’s okay.”

 

Feyre nods immediately, and begins  helping canvas his limbs, Lucien despairing more and more the longer they go without finding a message.

 

His eyes well with tears when he finds it, on his rib cage—Tamlin’s been in to see her, then, to threaten her and check if he’s said anything about a hospital. About the police.

 

_Where are you? Are you okay?_

 

It’s written in the familiar chalky script, hurried and frantic.

 

“Can you tell her—” he winces when Feyre’s eyes flash and he remembers. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Could you get me a pen?”

 

She obliges him, and soon enough he’s scrawling, _I shouldn’t say, but I’m safe. I’m going to be okay. Did he hurt you? Are you okay?_

_Don’t worry about me,_ she responds almost immediately. _You just focus on feeling better. I’m so proud of you for escaping._

_I’d rather be stuck with him a hundred years and see you, know you’re alright._

 

To that she merely responds with a heart, rather than sparking up their years-old argument.

 

“Everything okay?” Feyre checks, but she’s not looking at him—she’s looking at the conversation across his skin, the easy back and forth.

 

(Wishing she and her soulmate could’ve ever been like that.)

 

“For now,” he frowns. “I—I know no one here owes me anything, I know I’ve been a part of a lot of bad over the years, but—he has her. Has had her for almost as long as I’ve been with him. I’ve never had a choice.”

 

He looks around the room, desperate, willing them to understand. He finds forgiveness in the last place he expects it—in Rhys’s eyes, burning with a feeling he can’t put a name to, but one so strong it almost seeps into the room around them.

 

“We will do whatever we have to to get her back for you,” Rhys vows, voice low and deadly. “Az, look into it. Cass, you and Amren start putting together a plan, pull in whatever resources we’ll need.”

 

“It’s—he runs a human trafficking ring,” Lucien informs them, shutting his eyes—wishing he could shut out the memories just as easily. “She’s a part of it.”

 

Feyre presses a hand to her mouth before sprinting to a bathroom to throw up in disgust; Mor stalks out of the room without another word, anger radiating off of her.

 

“That’s Mor’s specialty,” Cassian explains, clapping a stone-cold Rhys on the shoulder. “After she and Rhysand’s younger sister were attacked…well, she barely escaped. Has been working to take them down ever since.”

 

Rhys swallows heavily before speaking. “I know what it is to know your soulmate is being hurt—to not be able to help them. I swear to you, we will do everything in our power—I will personally do everything in _my_ power, to save her.”

 

(He doesn’t say it— _you’re one of us now_ —but then, he doesn’t have to. It’s understood.)

 

/

/

 

The weeks pass slowly.

 

Feyre gradually learns to read—it’s hard, and she has so little foundation, but she’s a hard worker, so she learns at a breakneck pace.

 

(Occasionally Rhys wakes to indents across his skin, her practicing tracing words into her own every night.)

 

Everyone is putting all they have into taking Tamlin down, but—the guy has resources, and support, and alibi after alibi—he’s practically untouchable, and revered in the community.

 

(And Rhys is the feared, the pariah, after all.)

 

“This isn’t productive. We’re going to Rita’s,” Cassian announces one night, forcing everyone to get dressed and to the bar and then plying them all with alcohol until they can’t focus long enough to get morose about the situation.

 

Everything is music and color and movement, and Feyre sways with a lightness she hasn’t known since she was a child.

 

She’s giggling, an arm around Mor and another around Lucien, until she spots Rhys in the corner, watching them with the smallest of content smiles, and abandons her companions to approach him.

“Why are you all by your lonesome?” she asks brightly. “Oof.” She trips, but before she can get dizzy his arms are catching her, and she’s looking up to him from where she’s pressed to his chest.

 

“I’m not much for dancing. But I like seeing you this happy.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and she’s closing her eyes, trying to do nothing but _feel_ the gentle way his fingers glide across her temple.

 

“Will you dance with me?” She doesn’t reopen her eyes, nervous to see the rejection on his face, finding herself hoping for him to say yes more than she’d realized.

 

“I’d do anything with you, Feyre darling,” he says so quietly she thinks she might be imagining it—but then he’s threading his fingers through hers, leading her back to the dance floor.

 

They move in tandem for what feels like minutes but is actually hours, and she can’t get over how _right_ it feels, his body against hers, his stubble against her neck when he leans to whisper the words of a song in her ear.

 

By the time they’re back in his car, the chauffer not saying a word as always, she’s sobered up significantly, but is still tipsy enough to let herself do what she actually wants to, which is how she finds herself stroking a hand along his chest while staring at his lips.

 

“See something you like, Feyre darling?” Even as he asks, a hand goes to her hip, making its way to her ass as she presses closer to him.

 

“And what if I do?” she says, her breath on his lips.

 

He watches her for a moment, and she delicately touches the tip of her tongue to her lip—he surges forward, pressing his mouth to hers like he can’t bear to not, and then her hands are in his hair, on his jaw, and she’s straddling him and holding him so tightly against herself, and she doesn’t move until they’re back at the house and then he’s carrying her, because to part her skin from his for even a moment would be a sin.

 

They’re in his room without thinking, and she’s plucking at his buttons and he’s tearing off her shirt and they’re both panting when he pulls away for just a moment, meeting her eyes and pressing a thumb to her cheek so, so tenderly.

 

“Are you—are you sure, Feyre?”

 

“Yes—god yes. Please don’t stop,” she circles her hips midsentence and the last word comes out as a moan, and then she’s tugging at his belt loop. “God, Rhysand, if these stay on for another minute I think I might die.”

 

“Well, anything to keep my lady safe,” he says, voice unsteady with desire, and he’s sucking at her throat, at her collarbone, taking off her bra with a skill she’d rather not contemplate the source of.

 

Her nails pierce his back in the best way when he pushes inside her, and she’s mumbling, “fuck, _why_ haven’t we done this sooner,” in the throatiest voice he’s ever heard as she meets every thrust, and they’re gasping into each other’s mouths; all he can feel is _Feyre_ , all that matters in the world is Feyre.

 

Once they’ve both finished, and he’s tossed the condom while she’s stumbled her way to the bathroom because she’s damn well not getting a UTI even for the best sex of her life, he’s tugging the blanket over them, and she’s pulling him closer, and he presses a kiss to her temple gently even as she falls asleep, her nightmares the least bothersome they’ve been in months.

 

/

 

She wakes up first, and panics, because what if she’s just ruined everything—if Rhys grows uncomfortable, she has nowhere to live, and even if he has, what if she’s put herself right back in the same situation—and she _knows_ Rhys is nothing like Tamlin, knows she can trust him, knows he would never hurt her, but _what if he’s not_ because she thought Tamlin was her white knight once too, and she’s hastily tugging on a shirt, and stumbling out, noting they both have a hickey on the right side of their neck but too anxious to think much of it as she races from the room.

 

Rhys wakes to a cold bed, unsurprised—who wouldn’t regret a night with him, really? Feyre deserves the world, and he is…not it.

 

He won’t bring it up, too terrified of making her uncomfortable, too terrified of losing her friendship too. If nothing else, he had one, perfect night with her—it’s enough. Any time with her is enough. And so, so much more than he could ever deserve.

 

(If Feyre would look at her back, she’d note the scratch marks that he definitely hadn’t put there—the ones that match her own marks made on his skin.)

 

(But she doesn’t.)

 

/

 

A few days of avoiding Rhys later, she’s sitting on Lucien’s bed with a book, practicing her reading while he writes to his soulmate.

 

He catches her watching—not reading the messages, but the easy way he goes back and forth, the smile on his face whenever a new line spreads across his skin. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” she says immediately, averting her eyes. He pokes her leg, and she sighs with resignation. “I—it must be nice, having her. The circumstances are shit, but—she makes your whole face light up.”

 

“She’s pretty perfect,” he says gruffly, trying to cover up the emotion in his voice by clearing his throat. “Have you—did you ever end up calling yours?”

 

Her neck snaps to him. “What?”

 

Lucien’s eyes go wide. “He hasn’t written since you’ve been here?”

 

“No. He—I mean, who could blame him, you know? Years of no response…who would want someone like that?”

 

“I don’t think he cared,” Lucien said carefully. “The—that last time, when Tamlin flipped out, it was because he’d written that you could come to him. An address, a phone number, a plea for you to leave. Said you’d always have a place with him. That’s why Tam lost his fucking mind.”

 

_He still wants me?_

_(He still wants me.)_

 

She’s processing, trying to let herself believe it’s true—trying to figure out what it means, now that she’s become literate, however slowly she reads.

 

Before she can act, can speak, Cass is throwing open the door to the room. “Mor’s got a lead—we found her,” he says, looking Lucien in the eye. “Let’s go.”

 

/

 

It’s chaos, and terrifying, but she finally feels _useful_ , finally feels like she’s doing something that matters, and Lucien is a mess, but they’re going to find her—going to save her.

 

They’re outside the warehouse where she and a handful of other women are being kept, well secured and guarded, trying to come up with a foolproof plan, and while Cass and Mor argue strategy she’s the only one looking at Rhys.

 

He stares at her, eyes saying a million things, and then he’s gone.

 

“Rhys went in.” It comes out softly, but they’re arguing too loudly to hear her, and she keeps repeating it, her volume and hysteria both growing, until they turn to where she stands frantic.

 

“That motherfucker,” Cassian closes his eyes. “Okay. Az, let’s hit the guards at the most covert entrances we can find, that’s where he’ll try to get her out. Mor—”

 

“Distract the ones inside. I know.” Her face is stony.

 

They’ve been gone ten minutes when Feyre sees marks spreading along her arm—for the first time in months and _months_.

 

(And this time—this time she can read what he’s _saying_. Holy shit.)

 

_The girls are all free, but they’ve got me and I’m shot and I don’t think I’m going to make it back to you. I’m sorry this was how you had to find out, Feyre darling. Live—really live, okay? you deserve the world._

 

And of _course_ he hasn’t written since she was with Tamlin—he’s been beside her, reminding her to eat and bringing her blankets and being the first one to ever notice she couldn’t _read_ , and teaching her, and doing everything to make sure she knows she has a choice—and of course the hickey he’d left on her neck had been mirrored on his own, and it all makes sense in the best and worst way, because he’s the best thing she’s ever had and has the nerve to only tell her when she’s losing him.

 

( _Rhys_.)

 

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” Her vision is flashing and full of black spots, and Lucien is saying, _“Feyre? What’s wrong?”_ but all she can manage is, “He’s my soulmate. What a bastard--I'm going to kill him.”

 

And then everything goes dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a cutesy one shot I don't even know how we got here.
> 
> HEA is near!! thanks for reading.

When she comes to, she doesn't have it in her to move--she’s still frozen when everything comes together moments later.

 

Lucien had caught her when she passed out, and has her head propped up, exhales with relief when her eyes open. “Jesus, Feyre. You scared the shit out of me.”

 

“Sorry,” she croaks, sitting up slowly. “How long was I out?”

 

“Just a minute,” he reassures her. “They’re all still in there. What—what did you mean, who’s your soulmate? You weren’t making much sense.”

 

For a moment, she hadn’t remembered—that Rhys, Rhys who never gave up on her, is the soulmate who never gave up either, even after years of going without response, before they ever met. She’d forgotten he was lost.

 

(now she remembers—and it _hurts_.)

 

She’s saved from explaining—trying to put into words that everything good is gone—when a small group of young women comes running out of the warehouse, all wearing dirty scraps of clothing and trembling as they near.

 

As if she weren’t already overwhelmed, the sight of them makes her nauseous—these women, put through hell by _him_ —and he’d been getting away with it, all this time. Would probably continue to get away with it. She’d shared a bed with him when he’d been doing this, causing so much suffering—he’d done so much to hurt her and it still hadn’t been enough to sate the monster inside him.

 

(she almost _married_ him.)

 

The thought makes her ill, makes her murderous, makes her want to rage against the world.

 

The choking sound that comes out of Lucien—Feyre can’t even describe it, the amount of confusion and raw emotion that he releases.

 

The source of his breakdown becomes clear a moment later when one girl breaks away from the rest, eyes wide as she stares at him in disbelief. “L—Luc?” Her voice is gravelly, like she hasn’t spoken in ages, and has the kind of rasp that speaks of years-old vocal cord damage. Her dark braids are pulled up into a bun, she looks like she hasn’t had a real meal in months, and even still is one of the most beautiful human beings Feyre has ever seen; but what really draws her attention is the sun on her shoulder—the one Feyre had only painted on Lucien’s own that morning at his request, as a brand of hope.

 

(it’s her—the one they came here to save. Lucien’s soulmate.)

 

“Thank god,” he breathes, tripping as he gets to his feet. “Thank god you’re okay.”

 

She practically throws herself at him with a sob, grip so tight it hurts a bit, but neither of them can be bothered to loosen their hold because the discomfort means it’s _real_ , means they’re both really there and together and _free_.

 

(years of being used as each other’s weakness, of being apart and always hoping for something on their skin, anything at all, because even the presence of blood meant the other was still alive.)

 

(and they’re _free_.)

 

Feyre stands slowly, still feeling a bit lightheaded; she’s filled with relief and gladness for Lucien, but can’t think of anything other than Rhys, Rhys who is _gone_ , Rhys who sacrificed himself for women he’d never even met, Rhys who is her _soulmate_.

 

So she distracts herself with the situation at hand, because the women before her who’ve already been through so much deserve her at her best even if that doesn’t seem wholly possible right now. They’re terrified, and vulnerable, and sure this isn’t real—sure Tamlin and his henchmen are about to jump out of the shadows and bring them back to that terrible place, their own personal hell.

 

(she remembers the feeling.)

 

She steps up to them slowly.

 

“I—before I say anything else, I need you to know that you’re safe,” she begins, voice soft. “You are free of him, and we—I will keep him away from you with everything I have. I know what it is to be in his clutches—differently, but—as much as you won’t believe it for a while yet, I promise you are safe.” Her voice shakes as she says this, and though she doesn’t know it, this is what makes them willing to trust her, if for a moment—willing to believe in the hope she offers. “You can come home with us and shower and—then we can contact family and get you home, or if you’d like to stay, you’re more than welcome to live with my family as long as you’d like.”

 

Six months ago, she wouldn’t have believed she’d ever have family—would ever be secure enough to invite others to this home she hadn’t thought to consider her own. Now, she knows—knows Rhys and Mor would be pissed if she _didn’t_ feel she had the right to extend the invitation now.

 

She leads them back to where the cars are waiting—it’ll be a little squished on the way back, but they’ll definitely all fit, and a dark part of her laughs bitterly at the realization that there’ll be more space without Rhys.

 

Lucien and his soul mate join them moments later, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles are white. “Feyre, this is Mia. Meez, this is—my best friend.” His tone is more gentle than she’s ever heard it, full of such affection— _the tone Rhys used with me,_ she realizes with a jolt.

 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Feyre greets, and Mia responds with a small smile. “Lucien, you two should go ahead with rest of the girls so they can get the hell away from here—they should get as far away as possible, as fast as they all can. I can wait for the others and take the other car.”

 

Mia gives Lucien a questioning look, and he explains, “The others who helped to break you all out. I don’t know how much you know about the corporate scene, but Feyre lives with the Night family—I’ve been staying with them since everything went to shit. They—people say a lot of things, but they’re good people. The best people. We’ll be safe with them.”

 

At this, Mia’s lip trembles, her grip on Lucien slackening for reasons he doesn’t understand.

 

“Mia, what's wrong?”

 

She can’t speak, just presses a hand to her lips. After a moment, she steels herself and opens her mouth. “The—they’re the ones who helped you to—to come for us? Rhys and—and Mor, and the rest?”

 

Feyre flinches at his name, but exchanges a glance with Lucien at the familiarity in Mia’s voice before he replies, voice worried but careful. “Yes—is that not okay?”

 

Before she can respond, soft footsteps approach as Az jogs up to them, looking to Feyre first. “Are you okay? The place is clear, the others should be here momentarily to rendezvous.”

 

The easy way he speaks, the relief in his eyes— _he doesn’t know_. They didn’t see Rhys being taken, they don’t know he was shot, might already be dead—

 

Mia gasps, and Feyre wouldn’t pay much attention, except—

 

 _Except_.

 

Except that Az’s head snaps to the sound, and then Az—Az who is unflinching, incapable of being surprised, able to face anything—staggers backward. _Staggers_.

 

All of the blood drains from his face. “This is impossible.”

 

“You—you know Mia, Az?” Feyre asks gently.

 

And Az practically shudders, because for her to say that—it’s real. She’s real.

 

“Artemisia?” The word comes out in a choked whisper.

 

Mia gives a single nod, leaning against Lucien to remain upright and looking like she might collapse nonetheless.

 

Feyre looks back at Lucien, unsure—not clear if there’s bad history there, if they need to separate the two of them, if she’s a long lost lover of some sort—

 

And then Az lurches forward, and Mia steps to meet him as he buries his face in her shoulder. “We thought you were dead. Oh my god, we thought you were dead. All these years.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispers, so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “Luc said it was you all, but I—it seemed impossible.”

 

They step apart, and Mia reaches out to take Lucien’s hand again, a barely there smile of disbelief across her face.

 

Lucien himself looks shocked. “I—you’d never said your full name. I heard about your attack before we’d ever met, but you were just a name then, I didn’t know—never would’ve put it together.”

 

“What’s going on?” Mor asks as she, Cassian, and Amren approach, all looking exhausted and on edge.

 

Her face contorts when Mia leans out from her place beside Lucien, and the blonde _whimpers_ —Feyre thought she’d seen Mor at her most emotional, but at the expression on her face now, she knows she’s only seen a fraction. Mor mumbles “oh my god, oh my god” looking faint on her feet before launching herself at the younger woman, her entire body convulsing with the force of her sobs.

 

Cassian, for his part, whispers _“Holy shit”_ Repeatedly under his breath, and steps forward to press a kiss to Mia’s forehead, looking more rattled than Feyre ever thought him capable.

 

Feyre stands back from the scene, confused and shaking from the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

 

Amren sidles up to her with a knowing look. “You have no idea what this is, do you?”

 

She shakes her head slowly, eyes begging for answers.

 

“You know Mor’s story—of how she got involved in human trafficking prevention efforts.”

 

“Of course,” Feyre nods, “she—she was attacked, years ago. Her and Rhys’s sister. They—she barely escaped, and Rhys’s sister was killed.”

 

Amren turns to her with a calculating look, as if curious to see her reaction, before returning her gaze to Mia, limbs tangled so thoroughly with Mor’s their bodies would look like one organism if not for the difference in skin tone. “Apparently, not as killed as we believed.”

 

The understanding completely upends her world because Rhys’s sister— _Rhys’s sister is alive_. Alive, and Lucien’s _soulmate_.

 

She watches the scene with new eyes, almost disbelieving that it’s real.

 

(people like them don’t get this kind of happiness.)

 

And Mor’s love of Artemisia Gentilleschi, way back when they first met, suddenly becomes even clearer.

 

After a moment Mia takes a deep breath, pulls back and looks around desperately. “Where—where’s Rhys? How much longer till he gets here do you think?”

 

(then she remembers.)

 

Feyre presses a hand to her mouth as the others look around, witnessing what they don’t know is their last moment of peace.

 

“He—he’s not coming.”

 

The others immediately look to her with wide eyes.

 

“What are you talking about, Feyre? He was just in there with us—he should be out in just a minute.” Mor’s voice is still light with hope, but Az meets Feyre’s eyes with a dark look of understanding.

 

“They got him. He was shot, try—trying to get everyone out. And then they took him. I—I think he let them, so you all could make it.”

 

“What? No, he—who told you that? They must be wrong.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Feyre whispers, voice thick through the beginnings of tears. She lifts her arm and twists it so they can all see the familiar script, and closes her eyes to avoid seeing everyone’s last vestiges of hope slip away.

 

(she can’t block out the sounds of their hearts breaking.)

 

/

/

 

They all hold it somewhat together until they arrive back at the house, where Mor promptly slams the door to her room.

 

Cassian and Az approach as though to begin pleading with her to come out, but come to a halt when Amren firmly plants herself in front of the door. “No. Give her time.”

 

“She doesn’t need to be alone right now,” Cassian insists, and Amren raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“Oh? You know so much about she needs?” The slighter woman snorts. “I don’t think so. Leave her be, or I will make you.”

 

“Come on, Amren, you’re not the only one who cares about her—we’re all her family. Let us through.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, of course you’re her family. But of you and I, Cassian, you are not the one whose ring she chooses to wear, who listens to her speak of her dreams and her fears every night. You are not the one who knows how she thinks so clearly, knows exactly what she is thinking right now—who knows that she blames herself for this, that she is reliving losing Mia all over again. So when I tell you to give her some space, some time, and let me go in and be there for her, because I am hers and she is mine and I know what she needs better than you, _listen_ to me, you Neanderthal.”

 

Cassian opens and closes his mouth, thinking better of whatever retort he’d been prepared with and stepping aside.

 

Amren knocks softly, says something in her native language—her tone more gentle than any of them had thought her capable. The door clicks open, and she gives them all one last warning look before disappearing inside, the sound of the lock slipping into place resounding throughout the hall.

 

“That went well,” Az comments dryly, and Mia gives a half hearted smile.

 

(then they all remember, and descend into darkness.)

 

/

 

/

 

/

 

A month passes without any whisper of Rhys.

 

(the body doesn’t show up, which Feyre has to remind herself is a good thing.)

 

She’d holed herself up in his quarters the second they returned from the breakout, burying herself in the many pillows and blankets strewn across his bed. Hadn’t left to do anything more than go to the bathroom since, except for one quick store run in the dead of night no one else in the house knew about.

 

(they couldn’t know, yet.)

 

Every waking hour, she spends cocooned in his covers, tucked inside what remains on them of his scent to remind herself that it wasn’t all just a dream. She sits with her laptop propped up before her as she does research, finds contacts, corresponds carefully (so, so carefully) with those she knows to be in Tamlin’s good graces, in on his plans.

 

(she will find him. he’s her soulmate, and he found her, and he saved her, and now she will do the same.)

 

She writes on her skin every day, some kind of message—at first, constantly asking where he was, if he was okay; by now, though it’s clear he has no means of response, so she just writes to let him know that they’re okay, or draws images of the night sky. She hasn’t told him about Mia, yet—doesn’t know that she should, doesn’t want to torture him with the knowledge when he’s trapped and can’t do anything about it.

 

And if someone else were to read the message…disastrous. It would be disastrous.

 

Occasionally, bruises pop up on her skin, and she’s torn—because he’s being hurt, _someone is hurting him_ and she wants to break fucking necks.

 

(but it’s proof he’s still alive.)

 

Every bruise means he’s still breathing somewhere out there, and when there hasn’t been one in days she finds herself almost hoping one will pop up and confirm his heart still beats.

 

(she hates herself for it—but she knows the others do the same.)

 

Mia comes in a lot—honestly, if Feyre weren’t already so gone for her brother, she may very well have fallen in love with Lucien’s soulmate, because the girl is…amazing. She’s as witty and charming as Rhys, and while obviously traumatized is still so full of hope and love and light—the stories she tells about Rhys let Feyre see him through entirely new eyes, and—if she thought she couldn’t care more for him, she was wrong.

 

They’re in Rhys’s room, as usual, Feyre sending a flurry of emails while Mia snoops through Rhys’s stuff, Mor between the two surfing the trafficking websites she’s spent hours weaving through over the years.

 

“Do we want anything to eat?” Mor asks the other two, glancing at a note on her arm. “Amren says if we say no she’s ignoring us so we might as well ask for what we actually want.”

 

After Amren told everyone they were together, she and Mor hadn’t bothered to _announce_ , per say, that they were soulmates—they’d just started scribbling on their skin instead of texting when they needed things across the house.

 

(it had surprised Feyre at first, that they were together when the two of them are so different, but—it makes sense, the more she thinks about it. Mor’s bubbling optimism and Amren’s sharp realism. Both of their determination. Mor focusing on keeping everyone else okay while Amren focuses on her.)

 

(balance.)

 

Feyre scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.

 

“Maybe pizza. Or—oh,” Mia gasps quietly from the back of the closet.

 

“What, what is it?”

 

“I’d wondered where they went. I assumed he’d just gotten rid of them all,” she mumbles, and steps back up to the bed with an overflowing cardboard box.

 

Feyre leans over to see what’s in the box, and feels her breath catch in her throat at the sight of Rhys smiling brilliantly up at her—a million different photos fill the box, all shots of a much younger Mia, and suddenly the reason for all of the pictures hanging around the house being recent becomes very clear.

 

Mor clears her throat. “Yeah. We—it was too hard, seeing them when you were gone. Your—the first year you were gone on your birthday, Az lost it. Only time I’ve ever seen him cry. He took them all down, asked Rhys to keep them tucked away somewhere.”

 

Mia gives a sad smile. “I would’ve done the same. Neither of us has ever handled loss well. I…even though I knew he was fine while I was gone, I still felt like half of me was gone. He’s my best friend.”

 

“I know,” Mor says with an attempt at a teasing smile. “You two have always had your own world—your own language, practically. I would’ve assumed you would end up together if you weren’t so alike. Lucien, though—that makes sense.”

 

“He tempers my darkness,” Mia admits. “Having him has gotten me through the last few years—even the days I didn’t see him, or talk to him, just knowing he was out there. My only issue with him now is that he refuses to fuck me.”

 

“Come again?” Feyre asks over the sound of Mor’s snort.

 

“I—he means well. And for a lot of people, the kind of things I’ve been through make them not want to have sex at all, which is fair, right? They want to avoid anything that reminds them of the trauma. But for me…I want to fuck him until he’s all I can think about, until I have enough good memories to outnumber the bad. I want—I _need_ his touch to be the one my skin remembers.”

 

Her tone is light, but Feyre knows better—knows the kind of pain that makes a person able to lightly bear a conversation so hard. Knows what it is to so badly need to force the memory of another from your body—to cover any trace with new moments.

 

That feeling—that desperation for the one you love to erase any trace of the one who hurt you—it overpowers her when she thinks of Rhys.

 

(it’s the reason she’s in the situation she is—the reason his loss is so much more.)

 

/

 

The days continue to pass, and—it’s easier, to avoid everyone, to just work on finding him in whatever way she’s capable of.

 

(the more she avoids her family, the less she has to lie to them.)

 

Days like today, though—she’s crying, and can’t very well see through her blurred vision enough to read the tiny text on her laptop screen. Everything bleeds together, the world just a mess of colors.

 

She piles every blanket she can find into something resembling a nest, and has begun digging under the bed for more quilts when she comes across a gorgeous silver gift bag.

 

She shouldn’t.

 

(she does.)

 

She tugs the tissue paper out of the bag, and the sight of the intricate paint set hits her with a pang. It’s meant for her—she knows without question.

 

And it’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given her—so exactly what she wants, and she can see the place where there was meant to be red paint that Rhys had carefully removed. Her perfect, perfect soulmate.

 

And in that moment, she’s pissed at him all over again—for knowing that they held everything in their hands and not telling her, for being so fucking perfect when she can’t even tell him so, for not being here now when they should be at their happiest, just—she’s so _pissed_. She’s going to do her damndest to save him so she can throttle him herself.

 

Before she really thinks about it, she begins yanking the lids off the paints, tugging a brush from the bundle tied together with a wispy bow.

 

(she can almost see Rhys collecting the brushes, carefully arranging them before slipping on the ribbon.)

 

She’s a little worried she shouldn’t be around paint fumes right now, but—they’re oil paints, which are so much more solvent based and from what she understands the safest, and—

 

Regardless, she starts painting all over the walls of Rhys’s room—they’re all pure white, strongly contrasting the pitch black of his furniture and sheets, and thus will take whatever color she throws at him.

 

She’s pretty sure Rhys will like that she painted the walls, but a small part of her hopes he doesn’t and it serves as his soulmate punishment for keeping things from her.

 

Thinking about him hurts, though—picturing him, the face she hasn’t seen in so long and yet can still picture so clearly. He’s ingrained inside her soul.

 

So she paints the others—their family. Starts with just their eyes but then expands to craft their entire faces in the sitting room in Rhys’s quarters, so that their smiles fill the room.

 

By the time she makes it to the actual bedroom, she’s run out of faces—and so she turns the entire wall into the skyline of a mountain range, sun peeking out like it’s just about set. Begins carefully sketching in the stars. The silhouette of the night sky dominates the room.

 

/

 

Miles away, Rhys glances down through the eye that’s not swollen shut and sees swaths and marks of all different shades of paint decorating all four of his limbs, and smiles.

 

/

 

/

 

It’s been over three months since they lost him when they finally, _finally_ , have a lead.

 

“Feyre?? Open the door! We have to go.”

 

She can barely hear Cassian’s demand over the music blaring from the speakers in Rhys’s room—she’s having another vomiting spell, began blasting alt rock as soon as it started as she’s taken to doing.

 

(the last thing she needs is any of them noticing—any of them asking questions.)

 

She can barely handle her own grief right now—she doesn’t have it in her to need to comfort them too.

 

Slowly rising to her feet, she makes her way to turn down the music and throws open the door, to find Cassian flanked by the entire rest of the family except Lucien and Mia.

 

(As much as Mia wanted to come, wanted to be there to save her brother—she couldn’t be back there. She wasn’t strong enough yet—maybe not ever, to face those demons fully.)

 

“We found the place. It’s—we have no idea where in there he is, but based on your intel and Mor’s research we know about the radius they have him in, but they’re moving him again soon, so—it has to be today.” Az speaks so quickly the words would blur together if she weren’t so used to this—his underworld tone, the all-business one that kind of terrifies her.

 

Cassian, however, analyses her carefully, giving her a frown that means he knows something’s up. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing! I’m fine. Let me get dressed and we can go.” She hurries back inside the room, and the rest dissipate to prepare themselves for a rescue mission; Cassian, though, follows her inside.

 

(he knows better than to believe her.)

 

“I will not bring you into a fight if I have no idea what’s wrong with you—if you’re compromised you’re no good to us.”

 

Her eyes blaze with anger. “You can’t stop me from being there. I will go through whoever I need to—he is my _soulmate_. I told you, nothing is wrong, I’m just tired.”

 

“Don’t lie to my face. You want to go, then tell me what’s wrong. You’re pale and clammy and I know you haven’t slept well in weeks.”

 

“Yeah, it’s almost like I’m fucking terrified because my soulmate is in enemy hands,” she deflects, voice acidic.

 

He gives her a look and crosses his arms. “You and I both know it’s more than that. Feyre, we’re family—tell me what’s wrong. Let me help, whatever it is. _Please_.”

 

( _this isn’t something you can fight, Cass. it isn’t something wrong. just bad timing._ )

 

“You can’t—" She claps a hand to her mouth and rushes to the bathroom to resume emptying her stomach.

 

Cassian is right behind her, holds back her hair with one hand while the other gently rubs her back until she’s done. She leans back against the tub, panting, and the angle pulls her shirt right up against the swell of her abdomen, but she’s too drained to keep hiding this—and it’s _Cassian_.

 

His eyes widen with understanding, jumping from her stomach to the place she was just puking her guts up, and he raises his eyebrows as she nods in confirmation. “Shit.”

 

A dark laugh escapes her. “Yeah. Tell me about it. I—I’ve been doing some research, since I realized, and I guess the usual methods don’t work so well when it comes to soulmates; contraception is…different. We didn’t know when we…” she trails off, presses a hand gently to the bump. “I think I’m fifteen weeks or so.”

 

“Have you told him? When you’ve been writing to him, I mean.”

 

Feyre immediately shakes her head guiltily. “No. I—I believe we’re going to find him, I do, but if—if for some reason we don’t get there in time…if he knew and never got to meet them…it would destroy him. I don’t want him to know until he can be with us. I—I think it would hurt him less. And if Tamlin caught wind…god. We can’t risk it. And…I’d rather tell him in person, anyway.”

 

“Heard.” Cassian helps her to her feet. “I won’t bother saying you shouldn’t come today, because I know better, but—don’t throw yourself in front of danger, okay? If anything happened to you, either of you, I’d never forgive myself.”

 

She nods the promise, lets him pull her into a tight hug, the warmth of her friend soothing despite how messy life is.

 

He helps her finish getting ready to go, and they’re in the car so quickly she feels dizzy.

 

/

 

By the time they arrive, she’s zoned in, tunnel vision— _nothing matters except Rhys_. He’s here, and they can save him—they _have to save him_.

 

She slinks around the dock Rhys is being held at, in the stereotypical giant transport crates that fill ships, and grazes her hand along each one, but something keeps saying _keep going_ —some instinct deep down that _knows_ her soulmate isn’t within.

 

Her heart rate is sky high, but she has a lifetime of practice staying hidden, of learning how to go unseen, and she puts it to work now. She can hear the grunts of Amren and Cassian fighting across the dock, but doesn’t let it distract her—she has to get to Rhys.

 

Not finding him isn’t an option—she knows she loves her baby already, knows she’ll do her best, but—her child deserves its father. The kind of love Rhys gives, the way he cherishes everyone in his life so thoroughly—it’s the greatest thing she could make sure the baby has. _I’ll find him for you, little nugget. I swear_.

 

An hour in, something sparks in her chest, and she knows— _here. He’s here_.

 

The unit is unlocked, and she slides open the door carefully to see him curled up on a threadbare, mangled blanket.

 

(easy. this is too easy—why is finding him so easy?)

 

The missing piece clicks as she nears him, though, because his clothes—

 

(she’d thought he was wearing a dark shirt.)

 

(the shirt is white. his blood is what makes it darker every second.)

 

He’s pale—so, so pale, and his pulse so weak she can barely find it, and she calls for Azriel but knows it will take too long even if he gets here—knows he’ll never make it to a hospital in time.

 

“Rhys—wake up you stupid idiot. Please—god, please wake up. I can’t lose you. I can’t—I can’t do this without you, fuck, please wake up.” She begins sobbing as she binds his wounds, attempts to put pressure on the places his blood seeps from, but—there are so many.

 

There has to be something she can do—he’s her soulmate, she can’t watch him bleed out, can’t see him—

 

 _He’s her soulmate_. While doing her research, she’d read a rumor about the blood of your soulmate, the unreal power it held—there was no official confirmation, because so few people had tried it—and really, who would? The idea of drinking the blood of your significant other…

 

(you’d have to be really desperate.)

 

(she is.)

 

She pulls the pocket knife from her belt and drags it across her wrist, hastily jabs the open wound into Rhys’s mouth, and waits.

 

Waits, prays to any god there is, hopes and begs and refuses to face any other possibility.

 

For a moment, nothing happens, and she feels like a psychopath—she just made her soulmate _drink her blood_ like an over-crazed vampire fan.

 

But.

 

He makes a sound—a hint of a groan, and his hand flutters beneath her, and when she looks back up to his face it’s full of the color that had been so depleted.

 

The relief—she can’t even comprehend how full of relief she is, how grateful and thankful and how hopeless and frantic she had truly been feeling just moments before.

 

He’s okay—Rhys is going to be okay.

 

(it hits her, then, that she doesn’t know what she would do without him—hits her that she loves him _so much_. it’s overwhelming.)

 

“F-Feyre darling,” he rasps. “Fancy seeing you here.”

 

And just like that, the wave of relief is overpowered by rage—pure rage, because now that she knows he’s safe, knows he’s okay—she can remember exactly how pissed she is at him.

 

She presses a finger to his lips, shaking with anger. “No. Don’t you dare. You—you knew we were soulmates?”

 

He grimaces, but nods.

 

“How long? Did you—did you know when I came to stay with you? Before then?”

 

Rhys closes his eyes with resignation, but nods again. His mouth moves to speak, to explain, but she jabs the finger at his lips harder.

 

“No. You don’t get to speak. Not right now. I—how could you keep this from me?”

 

“Feyre, please, I—I didn’t know how to tell you, I was terrified of your reaction, I—”

 

“You were terrified?” she whispers, voice icy. “No, Rhys. Terrified is what I felt when you disappeared—when you told me we were soulmates as you sacrificed yourself for us and I realized I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. Terrified is months of not knowing, of hating myself as I _hope_ for bruises to pop up on your body just so I know you’re still okay.” The words are shaky, and her voice keeps breaking, but she has to say this—has to make him understand.

 

She meets his eyes, seconds later gasps at the feeling of a flutter in her stomach—sooner than her research says happens on average, but she was malnourished and underweight which can mean she’ll feel it sooner; she knows instinctively what the sensation is—the little nugget is moving.

 

She impulsively presses a hand to her stomach, then looks back to him with tears in her eyes. “Terrified is finding out we’re going to have a child and not knowing if I’ll ever be able to tell you—if you’ll ever be able to know them.”

 

Rhys trembles at her words, eyes glued to where she holds the loose shirt against the hardness of the baby. For once, he’s speechless—she would feel triumphant if the situation weren’t so wonderful and terrible.

 

It’s not the way she planned—she knows there are a million better ways she could’ve told him, but she’s tired and hormonal and hopped up on emotions and just couldn’t keep the words in any longer—couldn’t go any longer without him knowing, when he’s missed so much already.

 

And—she loves him. God, does she love him, even in this moment of wanting to rage and cry and collapse.

 

Her shoulders convulse, the relief and anger and adrenaline mixing together, and she gets to her feet.

 

Without another word, she storms out, makes her way to where the others have neutralized all of Tamlin’s men. “He’s in the one furthest to the back on the left. Injured but fine.”

 

She turns to Cassian, whose gaze is soft and worried. “Take me away from here.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hea is here AT LONG LAST!!! if you've waited around patiently for this final installment, thank you so much for your patience, writer's block has been a ho. love you much.  
> enjoy!

Mor is shepherding Rhys into the car moments after Feyre’s departure, forcing him to change into a soft change of clothes and attacking the blood all over him with wet wipes, but he’s not really conscious of anything until they start driving.

He’s still reeling from it all.

They found him, _saved_ him—which, as much as he has faith in Az and the rest of the Night Court, he never really believed he stood a chance at getting out, at surviving.

(a darker part of him admits he didn’t mind, much, as long as everyone else was okay)

And he was dying, but Feyre’s blood saved him, because Feyre was there, an angel of rage and love—and _pregnant_ , with their child.

A baby—half him, half Feyre.

(They already have his heart.)

But she’s been doing this alone; there’s so much he’s already left her alone for.

She has every right to be upset, he knew the moment he’d decided not to tell her yet she would be pissed when she found out, but—

(it was the right thing to do. What she needed, then.)

“How far along is she,” he rasps.

Mor’s brows lift in confusion. “How far in what?”

“She didn’t—” he closes his eyes, because of _course_ she’s been dealing with this all on her own. Anything to keep the people around her from worrying, while she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Feyre’s pregnant.”

“Oh my god.” Mor gapes, stutters like he hasn’t seen her do in ages. “That—I knew she’d been weird lately. She must’ve told Cassian this morning; he’s been more overprotective than I’ve ever seen him all day. _God_.”

They’re silent most of the drive home; occasionally, Mor mentions an update that comes to mind, doing her best to fill him in on everything that’s been going on while he was captive.

But she’s speaking carefully—too carefully.

(she’s hiding something.)

Every story she relays dances around something invisible, hesitates before mentioning a name or a comment.

When they’re five minutes out, she sighs, expression full of trepidation. “I know this day has been a lot. And you’re probably already overwhelmed a million times over. But—there’s something else you need to know, before we get home.”

 _What more could there possibly be?_ he wants to demand. Instead, he asks, “What went wrong?”

“Not wrong!” Mor immediately assures him. “This is actually—one of the best things to ever happen to us. Truly. I’m just a little worried it might be too much for one day. Which is why I’m telling you while you’re sitting, so if you faint you don’t get any more injuries.

“When we raided the warehouse, we managed to get out a bunch of girls, Lucien’s soulmate included. And she…Rhys, I don’t know how it’s possible. But—Mia’s alive. Lucien’s soulmate is Artemisia.”

He chokes at the words feels his entire body jolt. “No. That’s not possible.”

It’s a mistake, or a dream—one he’s had a million times over. Years of waking up from scenes of her return, only to have to remind himself she was gone for good. he’d love to believe his little sister is alive more than anyone.

(but hoping hurts too much.)

He doesn’t respond further—just keeps shaking his head until they're pulling into the garage.

And then she’s _there_ —older, skin a few shades too light (like she hasn’t seen the sun in years), but so clearly her, smiling and already crying at the sight of him.

Rhys can’t speak—just reaches for her, breathes heavily at the familiar shape of Mia in his arms.

“Hi, bubba. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

He barks out a laugh, squeezes her a little tighter. “ _Me?_ I can’t believe you’re here, jesus.”

Her smile is bittersweet—the ghosts in her eyes are familiar in a way that breaks his heart. “Yeah. I—sorry. I wanted to come with them to find you today, but—I couldn’t be back there.” She shudders at the thought. “I just—I’m not ready for that yet. Maybe ever.”

It’s then that Rhys really processes what her being rescued means.

(they’d found her in the lair of a sex trafficking ring—where she’d been held captive for years.)

(he doesn’t know whether to break something or throw up.)

All the years of suffering Amarantha’s abuse—and the same had been done to his baby sister, for so much longer.

(he’d sworn to protect her—but he knows the darkness her soul has seen, now.)

“Hey, don’t—don’t go there,” she demands, bringing his attention back to her face. “It’s—not okay, but it’s over. I’m free, and you’re home, and we’re together, and—we can get through anything, that way.”

He nods, tries to breathe and stop thinking of the horrors she’s been through since he last saw her.

(she’s here. _Alive_.)

Mia pulls away eventually, but he’s still staring at her—can’t really believe the sight before his eyes.

“Where’s Feyre and Cass?” she asks, and Rhys winces.

“She’s—mad at me, for not telling her I knew we were soulmates. Needs some time alone—Cass is taking her somewhere to cool off, now that she knows I’m safe. I think it was just…a lot, emotionally.”

And he knows Feyre’s never really had a family before—never had anyone, before Tamlin. He nearly broke her, so it makes sense that for Rhys to keep something so big to himself…well, he can understand why she’s so hurt.

(he knows her well enough to know this is her way of processing.)

“Speaking of soulmates—now that I know yours is Lucien, I have some threats to make.”

“Go easy on him,” Mia orders, tugging at his arm gently as they head through the garage door. “I respect your need to play the protective big brother, but also…he’s given a lot, over the years, to try to protect me. To love me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, he’s a good guy and my soulmate’s best friend, so—I don’t have much of a choice, I suppose.”

They make their way further inside, and his heart pangs at the sight of the art that covers every inch of his chambers. _Feyre_.

(as mad at him as she is, she missed him too. Loves him too. They can make it through the rest.)

At this point the day’s events and mental trauma catch up with Rhys.

(he promptly passes out.)

 

/

/

 

A week, she’s been holed up in the safe house Cassian assured her Rhys wouldn’t think to check.

By now, she’s sure he’s gotten it out of Cassian, but she’s made it perfectly clear to her soulmate via messages on her skin that she doesn’t want to see him until she’s ready.

( _You’re my light in the night. I’m sorry_ , he writes every day without fail.)

Nothing more than that—no pleas for her to come back, no demands asking where she is, no guilting her for leaving him. He respects her choice as much as he hates it, loves her enough to leave her be if that’s what she needs right now.

(even all these months after leaving Tamlin, she can’t pretend being treated well doesn’t still surprise her.)

She knows he’s nonetheless going out of his mind with worry (her guy is a mama bear if there ever was one), so every day she does him the courtesy of writing back, “ _we’re okay. I’ll come home soon._ ”

And really…she’s not mad at him as much, anymore. More overwhelmed—so much has happened, and while Rhys is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to her, the last time she was in love it consumed her, and it’s hard to trust herself even though she knows this time is different.

(he’s her soulmate.)

The permanence of it, when they’d danced around the edges of togetherness for so long is terrifying. And as much as she knows he has his reasons, she’s terrified thinking of what it says about her that she was with her soulmate, who _knew_ who she was, almost every hour of the day—what does that say about her ability to read people? To judge those around her?

Not to mention the little nugget on the way; in the moment, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from dropping the baby bomb and running away, overcome by emotion, but now she wishes she’d stuck around to see Rhys’s reaction—or had given him the news in a kinder way.

And she knows he’s not Tamlin— _knows_ she doesn’t have to worry about him using their child to keep her trapped, knows she doesn’t have to worry that she would be bringing a child into a toxic home the way she once did, but—it’s hard to believe her own mind.

Cassian’s been bringing by different foods and restocking paints at her request, so she doesn’t question the light knock against the hardwood of the front door. She glides to answer it, sucking in a breath when it’s not Cassian but her soulmate, on his knees with bags under his eyes, on the other side of the door.

“Feyre,” he whispers, the words so gentle they’re almost a caress.

She hesitates, but doesn’t immediately slam the door in his face, which he takes as her giving him the chance to explain.

 “I—I don’t know where to begin. I love you. I’m so sorry. You are—you are everything in this world and—” he cuts off abruptly, eyes drawn to where her hand curls over the swell of their child, where it had instinctively gone when shock flooded through her body. “My god. I—we—”

Feyre motions silently, not letting him continue. Reaching out her hands, she tugs him to his feet, and still without speaking presses his palm to where the baby sits, lacing her fingers through his own.

After a few moments, she pulls him to the couch, sitting close enough to feel the heat of his skin but keeping enough distance that her mind is still functional.

“I’m not—I’m not mad, anymore. I think a lot of it was…it was a lot easier to be angry, than so afraid—so terrified about what would happen to you, so constantly worried and heartbroken. And you’re safe now, so—less upset. But I want to know—I would really like to hear how you figured it out, and…all the things I wasn’t there for.”

Rhys nods immediately, thumb still stroking over the skin that covers their baby. “Of course. Anything you want to know—now or ever.”

She looks at him expectantly, and he takes a deep breath.

“The first time I knew about you…I was so young. Amarantha had recently taken over, everything in my life felt hopeless. And then one afternoon, I just—paint, everywhere. All over my arms.

He smiles fondly at the memory. “I couldn’t believe I could possibly deserve—that kind of love, that kind of happiness. But the thought of it was captivating, so I wrote to you. And—you didn’t answer, but washed off the paint, so I assumed you didn’t want me. Knew better than the universe—knew you deserved better than me, because of _course_ you did.

“But as much as I told myself I understood, I always hoped maybe you would change your mind. I’d heard such wondrous tales of soulmates growing up, and it seemed like the kind of fairy tale thing that could save me from Amarantha, you know? So I kept writing, every day for a year—figured you should know that I cared, that I was committed…that I would give anything I could.

“And you didn’t answer, so I stopped, but—you drew, sometimes. It would be the highlight of my week, whenever you sketched or painted something on our skin. I didn’t even know you yet, but your talent was so clear—I felt proud fate chose me for you, because surely no one could ever deserve you. And you drew the night sky so often—as if you knew instinctually, somehow. It felt like destiny.”

“Then you showed up— _you_ you, not this soulmate I sort-of knew about, but this beautiful woman who I bumped into at a miserable gala; and yet somehow your eyes seemed different—you looked like the only one who wanted to be there as little as I did. The only one who saw them all for what they truly were. And so soon after, this same Cinderella breathed life back into my cousin for the first time in years…you acted like you had nothing to say, but I knew anyone who could remind Mor of who she is like that was special, however much they’d been taught to hide it. Of course, you were also the most beautiful human being I’d ever seen, so I could never take my eyes off you long enough to think about anything else, anyway.

“But you were with him—”

(even now, he’s so careful not to say the name he knows makes her flinch, the name she doesn’t want to hear)

“—and I could handle it, if you were happy. You deserve that, more than anyone, and so I tried not to love you, tried to leave you alone, so you could be happy. And then you—my soul mate, you, not Feyre you—you started getting bruises,” his voice quiets to a whisper. He’s scanning her skin now, gripping her hand tightly, like he has to remind himself she’s okay even all these months later.

“So I reached out, for the first time in years. Because even if you hated me, if you needed me, I would do anything. _Anything_ to keep you from being hurt. But you wrote back—or at least, I thought it was you. You said to stay out of it—and I didn’t want to, but after so many years of you wanting nothing to do with me…it made sense. And there wasn’t anything I could do—I didn’t know your name, had no way of reaching out.

“And then something was wrong with the you I knew—you were never around, and so far from being yourself it terrified me. You just…started disappearing, right in front of our eyes. And you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with us anymore, and even though that seemed out of character, there was nothing I could do there, either. When I saw you that day…god, I felt so relieved and so horrified at the same time. You were somewhere, which was good, but the way you looked…”

Rhys swallows heavily, and—it nearly bowls her over. The way she’d felt when he was captive—he’d felt that way about her. For _months_. _Jesus_.

“You were a shadow of yourself. You were acting fine, snapping at me, but it was so clear the words weren’t yours; and then _he_ showed up, and realizing he was the one breaking apart the Feyre I know just…I didn’t know what to do. And I realized I loved you, and you weren’t happy, and the look in your eyes was so lonely…and that night, my soul mate was being hurt, worse than ever. Even though I knew she didn’t want anything to do with me, I couldn’t stop myself from writing. I would’ve done anything to help, anything to get you out…”

“But who I thought was you wrote back to fuck off, and I just—the you that was Feyre was dying right in front of me, the you that was my soul mate was being hurt and I could do nothing but watch the hurt appear on my skin, and I…felt like I was drowning, and there was nothing I could do to help either of you.

“And then the auction…”

Feyre watches as he physically braces himself, instinctively crosses her own arms as though she can protect her own body from the memories.

“If the last time I’d seen you was bad, this was…I can’t even put into words. I’ve never been so worried, so hopelessly terrified. And he was there just treating you like an accessory, while you looked so empty, and then he reached for you, and you _flinched_. And I _knew_ —immediately, knew what that meant, wanted to kill him with my bare hands right then, was so overwhelmed by both you and my soul mate being treated so awfully and just feeling like the world was a terrible place.

“But his handwriting had looked familiar in the log, and I was thinking about you and my soul mate at the same time, and it just—hit me. And I went and checked, and—his handwriting was the one that had told me to stay out, every time, and—you were my soul mate all along.

“I couldn’t—had to leave before I did something terrible, walked for hours until I was on the verge of dehydration and heat stroke, and Mor was worried out of her mind and all I said to her was _‘She’s my soulmate_ ’.”

“And then you disappeared again, and I couldn’t—I was trying to come up with plans, ways to get you out if you were willing, trying to learn his schedule to find out a way to contact you, but nothing was working. It was iron tight, and he had too much power, and I was starting to put things into motion to come get you myself, to let this whole corporation crumble if that’s what it took.

“But you _called_ —your voice sounded so faint, and broken, but it was there, and Mor brought you home, and I just—could breathe again. You were okay—you were going to be okay.

“You’d been through so much, though; everything was still raw, and you had so much to recover from. I couldn’t tell you, then—that we were soul mates, that I loved you. You needed room to breathe and—learn what it means to be safe, and have a family. You didn’t need me interfering with that. And anyway, even before he was in your life you’d never indicated you wanted anything to do with me as your soul mate, so I figured at least just being your friend I could still be in your life.

“And then when I woke up in a panic attack and you couldn’t tell which bottle was which, it clicked that you couldn’t read. And if you hadn’t been able to understand my messages all along…you might not hate me, after all. You just didn’t know what I’d said—had never been able to reply. I…I had a _chance_ , maybe.

“Not to mention I fell that much more in love with you, because you’d made it _so far_ despite no one ever taking the time to teach you.”

Feyre scrunches her nose, clearing her throat to keep from crying.

Rhys keeps going. “And then, that night at Rita’s, you were—pure starlight. I’d never seen you so happy, and healing, and just…if I could bottle the way I felt looking at you, god. And it was perfect—so perfect, you in my arms, us together. But you were gone in the morning, and I just assumed you’d realized you could do better. It made sense.

“The day of the raid—we’d been running in circles around each other, hadn’t spoken since that night, but—when things went south, I knew I had to tell you. Would always regret it if I didn’t, and—you deserved to know. Whatever else there was, you needed to know—you are so, so loved. I love you.”

Feyre sucks in a deep breath, then slides a hand into his without a word.

He watches her for a moment, waiting for her to speak. Giving her whatever space she needs to respond.

“I—from the beginning, I assumed you’d never want me. Soulmate you—when I couldn’t even read the messages you were writing, and then when I met you. Just—it never made sense. You’re successful and brilliant and have—everything. And I have nothing to offer. And—don’t you dare interrupt me, Rhysand, no matter how much you disagree with that statement. Whether it was true or not, that’s what I thought, what assumption I was working off of.

“But then, even after everything, you took me back in without cause or condition. And Lucien had heard about the last message you’d written, and—you my soulmate still wanted me.

“And as soon as you wrote that it was you, it just—god, Rhys, it made so much sense. Of course the soulmate that seemed to always know what I needed was the person who was right beside me taking care of me all along—I just, I knew I’d been hopelessly in love with you before then, but, to realize how much you’d done that I hadn’t even realized was you…it was so much to process. And Artemisia was here, which was—one of the greatest things to ever happen, and you weren’t even here to know, to have any idea—and what if something happened to you and you never got to see her again?

“I spent all day every day doing everything in my power to try to help the efforts to find you, to shut the whole thing down, and—whenever I wasn’t I just sat around painting, trying to make something for you worth coming home to. Hating myself for waiting anxiously for bruises to pop up so I would know you’d made it through the day.

“And then, when I found out about the baby…” she presses a hand to the bump, mouth opening and closing several times as she tries to find the words. “I’d never considered having kids, before. Didn’t think I’d ever be stable enough to bring any into the world, or that I would be at all competent, so I just—never let myself dwell on the prospect. But it was your baby, and somehow…I couldn’t even entertain the idea of them not being born.

“I was still so terrified, because—your child deserves to know you, _needs_ to know you. And if Tamlin had somehow found out, while he had you…” She cringes, because she’s had so much time to terrify herself with _exactly_ how the hypothetical would end.

“When we found you…god, I had so many plans. All the things I wanted to say.”

She trails off, finds herself staring at where their baby sits, pressed up against her palm.

(Looks up to find Rhys’s eyes locked on the same spot, completely smoldered.)

“Sorry I told you like that,” she whispers eventually. “I don’t—that’s not how I wanted it to go. I imagined a hundred different scenarios, and in the moment I just—” her eyes well with tears, which she’d like to attribute to hormones but are more likely the result of a lot of guilt and worry that she’s managed to mess up even this most precious of things. “I don’t want anything in our baby’s life to have that kind of anger and negativity, I don’t want us to remember it like that.”

“We won’t. I—you could’ve said it even as you swore you hated me, and it doesn’t change that this baby is born from love and light and only the most good things that are out there.”

Rhys leans his head down to tilt his forehead against her own, and she feels a hum throughout her entire body—he is _here_ , and _safe_ , and he loves her.

“I missed you,” she says softly, without opening her eyes. “I don’t know if I could’ve gone on without you.”

“You’re the only reason I made it long enough to get out of there.”

“I’m still mad at you,” she mumbles, letting him pull her into a tight embrace. “You’re going to be groveling for a very long time.”

“I’ll grovel for the rest of our lives if it makes you happy, Feyre darling,” he insists, humming as he presses his lips to her hair

 

/

/

 

Weeks later, Feyre agrees to leave the Night home for the first time since everything happened; she’d refused, for a while, wanting nothing more than to curl up around her soulmate and rest, basking in them both being okay.

But Rhys wants to take her on a real date (of course he does), and has been wheedling for ages to get her to his favorite restaurant and finally manages to convince her.

(Apparently, foot rubs are her kryptonite.)

The spot he brings her to is not nearly the kind of fancy Tamlin had always wanted, or even the kind she knows Mor to love; it’s a small mom and pop place, and the food takes a little bit longer but is nothing short of phenomenal.

They’ve never done this before, but—everything about being with Rhys comes naturally. They’d slipped into a relationship with so little effort, already knowing so much about each other and predicting each other’s needs.

“The little nugget approves,” she informs Rhys as they walk back to the car, her hand rubbing around where the baby’s movements are the most confusing sensation

“Good, we’ll have to come back, then, “ he promises, pulling the hand he holds up to kiss.

(a little debonair of a motion for her tastes, but it makes him so happy to treat her like a queen)

They sing and dance terribly along to songs they both love the whole way home, and it’s—everything she’d heard loving your soul mate was, but always believed was too good to be true.

(they’re too distracted to catch sight of the camera lens pointed their way.)

 

/

 

It’s hours later, when the PI’s work catches up with them; they’re upstairs, and all they hear is the sound of glass shattering before they’re all rushing down to the entryway.

(Rhys and Mor both step in front of Feyre, and she wants to scowl at them for being so overprotective, but resists if only because they’re protecting the little nugget, too.)

And then they get down there, and both she and Mia freeze— _Tamlin. Here._

(He’d broken through a window to get inside, and the look in his eyes is pure crazy rage.)

“Primavera, what the fuck are you doing here?” Rhys’s tone is icy and unfeeling—the voice he only uses when he’s maintaining the devil’s persona.

But Tamlin isn’t looking at him—isn’t looking at anyone but Feyre, lip curled as he stares at her protruding stomach.

“What did you do to her? You took her, brainwashed her, now got her pregnant? After snatching her away in the middle of the night against her will!”

(for whatever reason, this line is the one that most bugs Feyre—the one her brain can’t move past.)

“The sun was shining when I left you.” Her voice comes out much stronger than she feels. “And don’t you dare talk about my child.”

Jealous rage fills his face, and he takes a step forward. His hands clench into fists, and when he raises one—

(Feyre flinches.)

She can feel the tempers flare around her at the movement—can feel them all debating the legal repercussions of killing him right here right now.

It’s Mia who steps forward—punches him square in the jaw, so hard he staggers for a moment.

Confusion appears in his eyes when he recognizes her. “You—”

“My _name_ is Artemisia Night. I wonder how things might’ve ended differently if you’d known that, then.

“Not that that should matter, because the things you do, the things you make happen—unacceptable, whoever the women you’re hurting are.” She shudders slightly, though she tries to hide the motion. “Regardless, you messed with the wrong fucking person. Because unlike the rest of the girls you trapped me with, the ones you prey on because you know they’re alone and don’t have the means to fight you, you coward, _I_ have the resources to take you out the way you should’ve been a long time ago.”

“How do you live with yourself?” Mor speaks up, face contorted with disgust. “Facilitating a human trafficking ring, hiring men to abduct women and selling them to others? How do you sleep at night?”

“Easily,” he snarls. “It supports my way of life. They’re women no one will miss. Besides, the funds the ring raises can go to so many charities, it’s a net positive.”

“And the people who die along the way? The women you traumatize?” Mia demands, voice shaking.

“Collateral damage. Less loose ends to tie up.”

Feyre shudders, wraps both arms around her bump protectively. “You’re a monster. I can’t believe I ever shared a bed with you.”

“Yes, well, you’ll share with anyone who can keep you taken care of, won’t you Feyre?” His smirk makes her nauseous. “I do miss you—in bed especially. And your departure managed to convince many of my closest associates I was less than the golden boy, which has been an unnecessary complication.”

_You beat the shit out of me and had sex with my unmoving body, and you’re just standing here, in the home I had to drag myself up from the wreckage to come into, justifying the things you’ve done._

The front door slams open, then, flying form its hinges. “ _Police! On the ground, hands behind your back, you have the right to remain silent_.”

Feyre didn’t see anyone call, but then she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised—her family has their ways.

It happens quickly, then, him in handcuffs, being taken away, statements and police tape and the like.

Though Tamlin is very clearly the one the officers are after, she watches Rhys, Cass, Az, and Mia all carefully hold their hands in front of them, making sure they’re visibly empty.

it’s such a practiced movement—even in their own home, having called the cops on an intruder, there’s no assuming they’re safe. no assuming they’ll automatically be seen as the victim here.

(a motion she and Rhys will have to teach their child—the dangers, of living in a country that doesn’t presume you innocent if you have the ‘wrong’ amount of melanin.)

(and this is the richest family in the country. what happens to everyone else)

 

As soon as the chaos is gone, Feyre slumps against Rhys, joins the rest of them seated around the table looking shaken.

“I can’t believe you actually called the cops. I thought for sure you’d try to get rid of him yourselves.”

“Tempting,” Az admits. “But with this one…even if we wanted to, I think we all deserve a break. And it’s more than just him—the whole ring needs to go down.”

“But he’ll just deny everything and buy his way out as usual—it’s all corrupt, and he’s too good at covering his tracks,” Feyre says, swallowing thickly.

“Not this time,” Mor promises, turning to her soulmate. “You got it, right love?”

Amren nods, holding up a voice recorder with a shark like smile. “The bastard is going down, this time.”

 

/

 

And he does—gets out of the death penalty and several charges by turning on the rest of the operation, but he’s still locked up for life, and everyone he snitched on ends up in prison.

(It’s—better, but not everything has changed.)

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Rhys whispers into Feyre’s shoulder early one morning, the light just barely creeping in through the blinds.

She pulls back to look at him, eyes teasingly narrowed. “As we are married, soul bonded, and I am eight months pregnant with your child I am going to assume you’re referring to something other than our relationship.”

“Of course,” Rhys admonishes, twirling the lock of her hair his fingers are ensnared in. “Can you imagine how much I would lose it if I tried to break up with you?”

“You would definitely cry.”

“Oh, for sure. Mor would come rushing in to save me and end up laughing at the sight of me devolving.”

“It would be the baby’s bedtime story for the first five years of his life,” Feyre grins—then winces when she realizes she’s messed up.

“ _His_?” Rhys sits up straighter.

“I may have accidentally seen over the OB’s shoulder at the ultrasound yesterday. I know we wanted to wait, but it was right _there_ , and you were distracting her, and I just couldn’t help myself.”

Rhys snorts, tries not to let on that he’s a bit choked up at the revelation. “Of course you did.”

( _We’re having a son_.)

 “But really, what do you not want to do anymore?”

“Just—the persona. The evil Rhysand Night that kicks puppies and hates kindness and joy. That’s not the person I ever want our kid…our _son_ to think of me as—I don’t want him to even believe I’m capable of it. And I’m tired of pretending, and as much good as we do, I just…don't want to live in that world anymore.”

“So don’t,” Feyre replies like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Just work in the creative companies you’ve been backing all along—don’t give me that look, I didn’t _mean_ to snoop, but I came across some things while you were gone. It’s not like you need the money the corporation brings you—and if you think the work done there is that important, you can always hand off its leadership to someone else who wants to be doing that work. You don’t have to take on the whole world, Rhys.”

“Maybe,” he whispers, unsure.

“Not maybe—if it’s what you want, you can do it. There’s nothing standing in your way, now. Me and little nugget will be with you wherever you end up.”

 

/

 

When he’s taking Mia to renew her license, he smiles at the sight of little notes popping up along her arms in various shades of neon gel pen.

He’d never understood Feyre’s friendship with Lucien, but—seeing the way he so gently encourages Rhys’s little sister without overwhelming her makes his heart warm.

(He’s a pretty good man.)

“If I sold Night Corp…cool?” Rhys asks at a red light, carefully watching Mia’s face for anything she won’t say.

“Yes,” she blurts out immediately. “One hundred percent. Let’s burn the place down—not actually, because we could do a lot with the money from selling, but. You know.”

Rhys laughs, reaches to squeeze her shoulder. “Yeah, okay.” After a moment, he tilts his head curiously. “You have any clue what you want to do next?”

“I’m playing around with a few ideas. Luc is going into private security, which—sounds cool, and it makes sense. But I don’t think I want to be around that kind of environment, in any capacity—I don’t think I can do that sort of toxic atmosphere, after everything. I’ve done enough of that. I’ve been toying around with the idea of nursing school, maybe. Feyre and I have been studying for the GED together, and—it would be nice, to be able to help people, in a way that isn’t tainted in my memory.

Feyre’s mentioned the GED study sessions to him, of course, seeing as they’re effectively one organism and incapable of keeping secrets from each other. But he wasn’t sure if Mia wanted him to know, until now—their relationship has been more awkward than it once was, after everything they’ve both been through.

(The memories they want to protect each other from.)

“That would be pretty amazing. I’d trust you to stick me with  a needle.”  
“Such high praise,” Mia says, words dripping with sarcasm, but her eyes are lit up like they’ve been so rarely since having her back.

Things are by no means perfect, by no means fixed, but—it’s a start.

(and they’re going to make it.)

 

/ /

/ /

/ /

 

 

They name him Horus, because they’re nerds, and for whatever reason Rhys fancies himself death incarnate and claims it makes sense.

And he’s just—the coolest kid, Feyre thinks, completely objectively. Always offers his toys to whoever’s around, happy as long as there’s music playing.

(He’s the spitting image of Rhys, so he’s pretty perfect in every way.)

 

Rhys had talked her into letting them have a guys’ day at the aquarium so she could actually get some projects done, and Feyre’s both exhausted and exhilarated when she heads back.

As much as she loves devoting herself to her art, she’s even more happy when she’s at home with her best guys; she’s gotten updates throughout the day, the patented ‘check yes or no’ boxes she and Rhys scribble on the back of their hands for quick response decision making (e.g. _octopus stuffed animal the size of Amren? _yes _no_ )

(she said no to that one, but she has a feeling he might have ignored her—it seems more for his benefit than Horus’s, anyway.)

When she comes home from the studio she finds everyone in the living room; Cass and Horus are enraptured by the Wiggles—Horus beams at her, dutifully kisses her cheek and lets her squeeze him before returning his attention to the show. Mor and Az are deep in conversation about some piece of Russian literature, and Rhys is dramatically waving his arms and yelling at Amren, who looks entirely unbothered.

“No, Amren, he is _two years old_ , you are not teaching him ju jitsu yet—well, I don’t care if it’s Christmas!”

Feyre approaches them half-giggling, wrapping her arms around Rhys’s waist. “And Christmas isn’t for another week, Am—Mor’s rubbing off on you.”

Amren is unamused. “Do you have any idea how long tinsel and lights have been hung around our apartment? A week away is nothing.”

Horus comes running up and catapults himself at Feyre’s legs, his episode having ended and the football game he and Cass decided to watch next on a commercial.

“Mamama! Color?”

“Of course we can color, little man,” she smiles, lifting him to her hip. “Did you and Daddy have fun today?”

“Yeah! And Unca Cass-cass. I saw fish!!” He raises his hands excitedly, like he just can’t contain how great the day has been.

“That's awesome, bud! And I guess Uncle Cass does make most things more fun,” Feyre agrees, rolling her eyes at the smug look on the man in question’s face.

Lucien is watching Mor and Az’s conversation, looking fascinated, but—

“Where’s Aunt Mia?”

“Pizza!” Horus informs her, eyes bright.

“Of _course_ she is,” Feyre rolls her eyes, turning the mom look onto her husband. “I thought you were making chicken marsala tonight?”

“Yes, well, you see, the thing is, Horus and Mia ganged up on me and I’m not strong enough to tell them no.”

 

And it’s—crazy. If she had seen herself five years ago, she never would’ve believed it. Going from feeling so alone in the world, to being so unfalteringly happy, so surrounded by love and care even on the bad days. To having her soul mate, who’d cared so much, no matter who she was or what she’d done.

This kind of stability and love, it’s… _everything_. She couldn’t ask for anything more.

(The bad days are still there—all the time. She still feels broken, sometimes.)

Rhys smiles, cranes his neck to peck her cheek.

(being broken is okay when she’s with him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story was supposed to be a one shot and ended up being such a haphazard amalgamation of scenes and characters and themes, so--sorry it's a little messy, but we MADE IT!!!  
> thank y'all so much for reading this story, for your patience between chapters, just-everything. you're the best.


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